


Cassandra's Blood Sisters

by Newlay



Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Dark, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Original Character(s), Polyamory, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28765062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newlay/pseuds/Newlay
Summary: Cassandra sets out on her journey, but after meeting a young princess or two, she gets more than she bargained for. Forced to be a leader and soldier again, she inadvertently begins a homosexual warrior cult of former princesses seeking adventure, with herself as its figurehead. After fighting bandits and worse, cutting a bloody swathe through the wild country, internal troubles begin as the group develops and becomes more dangerous - especially when certain visitors come out of Cassandra's past.A fic like this was requested, so it's begun. I think I've sketched out a good story, so I hope you enjoy. For my fellow Cass fans.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

# Memoirs of Cassandra, I

_Note on the text: the entries in this journal/memoir are erratic, due to the travelling nature of the author. She is also no trained writer: original spelling mistakes have been corrected, although the shifts in voice and tense are left as a testament to her unruly personality and as additions to the style of the work._

"The meeting of strangers in the desert only ends in two ways: death or comradeship." - Demanitus, _Early Hardships_

I stood sweating in the furious sun, keeping my back ramrod straight despite my exhaustion and the armed caravan approaching over the lip of the dune. The wind, at least, was some relief, blowing sand from among the coarse grass of the dunes across half a mile of flats until it swirled around my ankles, carefully covered against the broiling sun. My face was not so tenderly treated; any area not covered by my hat was burned to a peeling blotch. The back of my dark hair was heavy with drying sweat; my clothes, once green, were quickly turning the colour of the tan desert under my boots. My sword hung heavy on my back. 

Tipping my head back to sip carefully from my waterskin - three-quarters empty - I stole a glance at the hulking figures to my right. Lined up on the desert floor were twenty men; scum, mostly, mercenaries white and brown who found no work in more comfortable climates and so had to come here, to Kenshaka, the _Border Country,_ as they call it here. There would be no gentlemen here like you could find in Corona Palace. Actually there wasn't a man who couldn't make Eugene Fitzherbert look like a man of honour. Just thinking of Fitzherbert made me smile. I shuddered; it goes to show what kind of company I keep nowadays, if dealing with _Eugene_ gets me teary eyed. Or how deep in shit I am, if you're a pessimist. Which I am. 

_There's not a man here who wouldn't rape me if he thought he could get away with it,_ I say mentally, and let me tell you, you don't know what an unsettling thought is until you've found yourself thinking that. At least I had proven on the way I could smash a man's teeth in if I needed to. The creature next to me sees me looking and opens his mouth wide, grinning at me. I revise that thought: these things had no teeth left to smash. I nurse my own pearly whites and shudder. _You don't care,_ I tell myself. I jam my hat on further down my face and stifle a groan of pain at the sunburn. I have a knack for making bad decisions, as you may know if you've read Corona history, but bringing my snow-white skin to the desert country is right at the top of the list. 

But I need this. For one, I need to get away from the country of my youth. There are too many bitter mistakes there that scar me deeper every day I'm there. For another, work is in short supply up north. Maybe a certain short-haired princess has got everyone to stop fighting each other; I wouldn't know, since I avoid any news in case I hear her name. Anyway, as you may have guessed, I'm working as a mercenary. Lowest of the low. But that's rather fitting for me, isn't it? Here I'm seeking employment under a southern prince who rules a fort near the border, at the foot of the mountains. I'm standing with these louts to be chosen for the job; you can guess my confidence in my chances.

The caravan is pulling up closer and an old man two places down the line whistles in wonder. "Prince's come down hisself this time," he grunts. "Bin years since he done that."  
"An' it's bin years since you could swing anythin' heavier than your teacup," chortles a bearded, accented man, and the group laughs savagely. A dark mercenary further away says something in a language I don't know, and the group howls even louder. One younger man leaps in the air and lets off a pair of kicks, faster than you could see, as if he can't contain the youthful energy in him. He'll be chosen for the Prince's army for sure, I think sourly. 

Half the group is laughing. The old hands, they must be. The other half is new like me, strangers to this brutal land. Not strangers to brutality, though. The ones I can see clearly are broad men, most with a scar or two on their faces. That increases your price sometimes, so they'll do it themselves. These might not have needed it. Still, I had seen a couple on the voyage over and knew they spoke my language - typical of my luck to be on the other side of the group to them. 

I see a shadow fall right by me. I don't wait, I leap forward and draw my sword in sudden fear, my heart pounding instantly. I turn to battle whatever was behind me - a thirty-ish man staring at me in bemusement, faked or not. The rest of the group is instantly crowding round, at a safe distance of course - mercenaries know how to sniff out violence, and also how to keep out of it if there's no profit - and the man spreads his hands in an innocent gesture. 

"Here I am, taking a moment to stretch my legs before I meet the Prince, and this lady seems to think I deserve beheading for it. Oh, the moods of women. What, pray tell, did I do so wrong, Oh Merciless One?" This one is different; witty, the kind of man I despise, and clever. He might even be able to read. He opens his eyes wide and looks at me expectantly. So do the rank of stinking, brutal mercenaries, all staring at me. 

"Going for a grab of that meat, Ranzan, no doubt," a foreign beard sings out, and the group chuckles tensely. I'm glad I can't go red any more on account of my red-raw cheeks. 

"Some boys going for women like that need their arses kicked," a tanned soldier growls. I look at him with a twinge of relief, but he isn't looking at the young man, he's looking at me, and if he had the brain cells, he would wink. As it is, I'm surprised he doesn't lick his lips. I feel my sour guts shift as if I would vomit. 

The group shifts its stance as if for violence. I swallow.

"He didn't do anything," I mutter reluctantly. "I just lost my - temper, I guess."

There's a moment of silence as if they're disappointed there's no show to see - I guess seeing a woman fight would have been a novelty. Then the one nearest guffaws, and the group set to laughing like hyenas again. If I could have a full-body blush, in that moment I would. Because they're laughing at me - at the _girl._

"I think your little lady is a bit jumpy," a mercenary splutters. "Imagine drawing your sword because a man went for a walk near you-" he roars and slaps his knee. 

"Perhaps a little _tender_ for this line o' work," another, a short, balding man, leers at me. I look away from his rotten teeth, disgusted - a big mistake. He takes it for shyness or even acquiescence. He steps closer. "I'd take care o' you, little girl."

I wasn't going to take that. I brought my sword round and levelled it at him slowly, holding in my humiliation and rage. "Not a step closer," I told him. "I don't like your tone, or your words, so you'd better get back in line. The Prince is probably almost here by now." My voice only trembles a little, and I held my sword rock steady, something that persuades him I know how to use it. A different look comes into his eye.

"You're a bit angry for a joke," he says. His hand rests on the rusty blade at his hip. "That's dangerous talk, missy. Among us mercenaries you learn to hold your tongue, or you die." The youth who jumped earlier perks up; the group leans forward in anticipation. I feel like throwing up. I blink the sweat out of my eyes. 

"They're here," the thickly-accented beard mutters. His feverish eyes rest on me for a second, then he turns and stands by the post by the side of the track. The balding man follows; I allow a second to go by before I lower my guard. I am trembling, though not so much I can't hide it. I've been in fights before, sure, but the whole mob could have turned on me as one, and what kind of fate would that have led me to? Besides, a nick from that rusty blade could have given me diseases. I've seen men die of them before, and it's the ugliest thing. I silently curse my hot head; it's gotten me in enough trouble already, and here I am again. 

Then I look over. The Prince really is here, and the caravan's stopped dead by the track. The others are already rushing to greet him first; I curse again and rush to make myself presentable. I dust off my short green tunic hurriedly (there is a lot of dust so this does little) and try to straighten out my leggings. I check my hands: chapped, scarred, calloused, and dirty from the mud of the road from the port. Plus several splinters from the ship I still haven't gotten out. I want to hit something in frustration - but that's something I do a lot, so I keep control of myself and march over to the waiting men. _Cassandra, thoroughly humiliated yet again,_ I think bitterly. Not to mention a brush with death.


	2. Serpents

_Beautiful things in the desert are the loveliest things in the world - or they are rattlesnakes." - Unknown, transl. by Varian of Corona._

The doors of the vehicle closest to us swing open and a single young warrior steps out. He's clothed in what must be traditional warrior garb - skin covered from head to toe, soft tan boots - but the whole thing is so perfectly colourful that I can't help staring. His head is wreathed in a golden turban with what looks like a laurel leaf sticking out of it; his torso is clad in a pale tunic slashed with vivid red from shoulder to hip, which hangs loose. His legs are clothed in green, like my tunic, though his clothes are much cleaner, and more expensive.

_This is what people wear to war in this country?_

But my doubts are cleared - he walks with a warrior's stride, chest puffed, back straight, and carrying the sword at the hip as if he's had to do that for thousands of hours. He is trained. He is also quite handsome. Black locks of hair, probably lusciously shampooed, fall across a wolfish face, cheekbones stark and high.

From the other caravans thirty soldiers pile out, trotting towards us to stop us causing any trouble. Once they're standing to attention in front of us, looking to the colourful young man for orders, I notice most of them look professional, hardbitten, as if they've seen a conflict or two and learned discipline on the way. A handful, though, look like us - poor in luck (and money), scruffy, here for the money and no loyalty. This prince can't be all that well off, if he has to fill out his army with dregs like those.

I eye the young man, who is looking back to the caravan. Is he the Prince? I've had some experience with different kinds of men, including royalty, and this one doesn't strike me as the real leader here. As I think this, a great shape fills the doorway of the vehicle, then heaves itself out into the sun. A skinny young figure follows with shade. The Prince of Fort Kenwala-a-Kenshaka approaches. A corpulent man, he instantly conveys a sense of presence - and danger. Beady eyes gaze out of a fat-rich face, the colour of coffee if you added milk to it; the shade of the rich of this country. He carries no weapon, but doesn't need to. Dangerous confidence radiates from his walk - and a certain bounce, as if he's savouring life; in my experience, that savour can be for worse things than sherbet and cake.

He stops in front of us. A finger thrusts out at the leaping young man from earlier. "You," he booms. I almost wince; his voice is like a foghorn, which is unusual for a country where everyone seems to speak in a half-whisper. The youth grins, cocksure. The Prince seems to forget about him instantly and moves on. "You - you - you - certainly not you, Jensen. . ." The old man somebody had said could only lift his drink now slumped a little. A white mercenary claps him on the shoulder in commiseration; the rest of the group leers at him with malice. _What a bunch of honourless lowlifes,_ I think joylessly, not realising for a second that the Prince is standing in front of me, has pointed at me. He stands for a second, looking over my face as if testing me - then he turns abruptly and marches back to the shade, his boy following him hurriedly. He exchanges glances with the young peacock from the caravan before disappearing into the gloom.

I stand stunned. I expected some flowery speeches, and maybe some testing - the Kenshakeen are as keen on slow conversation as they are on ceremony - but that was it? The tension among us dissipates explosively. At least ten of the men glare at the lucky ones, particularly me, I suspect. I slump in relief. I'm going to have a roof over my head for the next few months, at least, which not everyone here can say. As I turn from the group to the post where my horse is tied, the old man who was rejected - Jensen - is saying something. "Back to the wine pits again to drown my sorrows, I suppose. At least I have no wife to take care of." I look at him, withered from sun and poverty, pained by diseases I don't want to think about, and shaking for want of a drink - and am strangely shaken. I think I see something of myself in that man, worn down by years of failure and hard luck. What might I be in twenty years? 

"I wonder why he's taking _you_ ," one rumbles, nudging his friend and grinning. I stride past over the sunbaked dirt. God grant what he's implying isn't true - the Prince isn't hiring me for sex. I am a _soldier_ ; I even have a reputation. 

Bringing Fidella to the soldiers' caravan, I look up at the driver and pray he speaks my language. "Is there anywhere to water my horse before the fort?" He twists his body to look at me slowly. He is draped from head to toe in cloth; not a single inch of skin is visible. He chews something languidly. "As the moon sinks below the horizon, there is." I get the feeling he's smiling. "We are, stranger blessed of the stars, in the wetlands still; the ground is rich in life and the tinkling of water. Your horse will be well." He nods his head and turns back to the creature in front of him - no horse, I realise with a start. It's some beast with a monstrous hump on its back, and, I see as I edge closer for a look, a hideous face. Fidella makes a soft sound at the sight and the camel - that's what it is, I realise - stares straight into her eyes, looking somehow moody. I really am in a new country. 

_Rich in tinkling water?_

I look around. I haven't seen a river since leaving my home continent; there hasn't even been a stream on the road here that I could see. Tufts of coarse grass hold down the dirt here and there; the occasional bush makes a green spot in the distance over the dusty plain behind us to the north. The rest is an expanse of tan ground peppered by stones.

If this is the wet country, what lies further south?

Mounting my horse, I look back at the men: dark figures traipsing back on the road, to the port or the even sadder dusty villages on the way; berobed warriors stuffing their meagre packs onto the caravans, checking their persons for their daggers and bows and the vicious barbed arrows they make here. Their faces seem like shadows, shrouded in the cloth they wear against the beating sun. My companions, I think, for the next part of my life. _Even if there's no battle, I may not survive this._

There is a stream or two after all, I find as we make our way south. The beasts and the men drink greedily at every opportunity; I'm beginning to realise the value of water in this country, and fill my skin, tipping it into my mouth. Someone mentions I drink like a highborn lady, at which I curse at him. It's a habit I haven't been able to break, along with "talking proper" and chewing with my mouth closed. I was raised in a palace, after all, even if I'm no princess. Princesses don't know as much about weapons as I do, for one thing. For another, my mother abandoned me as an unwanted bastard when I was four.

"Prince wants to see you for a minute," an accented voice says haltingly. I turn but the speaker's already heading away - it's the bright young man with the sword. As his words sink in I feel a knot of fear in my stomach - it's exactly what I was scared of; the Prince is going to bring me into his dark private room, alone. I jam my skin in my belt and walk over, jaw set as firm as I can make it. I've faced worse before. The young peacock heads towards the Prince's vehicle, but doesn't go in. As he disappears round the corner, I knock lightly on the door, which is opened immediately by the cringing servant boy. He looks at me with fear in his eyes, then stands aside to let me in. He leads me across the dark interior, heavily decorated in richly-coloured carpets, the air thick with incense. 

The hulking figure of the Prince sits on a pile of cushions. He crooks his finger towards the floor opposite him. I sit, wondering at the lack of guards. He goes back to contemplating the painting on the wall. The caravan jolts and I start; Fidella is back at the water still. I open my mouth but he starts talking before I can. 

"Your things will be taken care of; nobody leaves or steals property under my watch. Why are you here?" 

"I'm a travelling mercenary, a former knight errant. Prince." I've got some of my old confidence back. 

"A do-gooder!" He speaks my language fluently. "How far you have fallen - in moral as well as economic matters. You lived in a great house once, with lords and ladies moving around you, did you not?" 

I stare at him in shock. "You can't possibly know who I am." He smiles slightly and gazes at the painting again - a bird flying towards the sea, and the land on the far side. "No," he says, still gazing. "Things about you give it away; first, your proud way of standing, so different to that of the arrogant mercenary. You have been something in your life - maybe even royalty." He turns back to me and his basilisk eyes flick up and down my body. "And your clothes are not what I've seen anybody wear in your profession - the cut was done in a palace somewhere; not a tailor for rich merchants, for it shows too much of the taste of the royal hunting men of the western lands, so far from that of money-grubbing. It was expensive, naturally; this was somewhat hidden by the dirt - but not from me. These are the reasons I have chosen you for a special task."

My heart beats faster. I don't like the look in his eye - it suggests he's thinking exactly what I hoped he wouldn't be thinking. I wonder if I can get my sword out in this enclosed space, or if he couldn't just overpower me with his body. I wait. 

He gives my face a last examination; I feel like I'm being stripped naked. His mouth moves slowly again: "Which I will detail to you in time. First, I need to know if you can take discipline; you have a wild look in your eyes which I like and dislike. Do you know about the Desert Depths? 

“No. Prince.” I add the last after, grudgingly. 

“You will learn. Raiders come out of there frequently – and there may be worse things there. Things . . . of an extraordinary nature. We must be prepared; the next generation must be prepared to let Kenshaka survive.” He looks into my eyes coldly. “This will happen while you are here. Now, you will drink your tea like the lady you are and get out."

I blink. I think I will have to get used to the Prince's abrupt ways of ending conversations; evidently he has little patience for people. 

The servant boy instantly puts a steaming cup in front of me. "It is required to give tea to guests," he murmurs. I look into his eyes and see the same fear of his master as before. I think I understand that fear now, having sat and looked into those eyes, so frighteningly neutral in the fat face. I felt like I was sitting with a snake.

The Prince watches me deliberately drinking - consciously avoiding the aristocratic way of holding my cup - then seems to forget about me entirely, closing his eyes; he offers no parting words. I step gingerly away from him, the servant boy going ahead to open the door to the roasting heat beyond.


	3. Why Didn't You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fateful sight that will lead to a fateful meeting.

The main domains of the Prince of Kenwala-a-Kenshaka come into view after ten miles. Aside from the pathetic little dwellings nestling at the opening of the valley, the area was dominated by the fort itself: brown mudstone walls rose sheer to the central citadel on top of the eastern rise. Towers with indistinct figures, sentries, stood ugly along the fortifications. The main gatehouse hulked before us, the stream which must feed the Prince's crops running beside it. Between us and the walls stretched a hard ground, with pitiful peasants bent over crops in the awful heat. The place was impressive in its size at least - those fortifications would be hell to attack, my soldier mind analysed - but it was ugly as sin; so unlike the splendid palaces back home. But then, Kenshaka doesn't enjoy plentiful trade; it gets by on the fine rugs it makes, and the great vineyard I just rode through. 

The gate needed no password to enter - the Prince would probably have the guards killed if they wasted his time - and was swung open hurriedly. I'd heard the Southerners, including the Kenshakeen, refuse to do anything quickly - but here we are. I, for one, was getting crankier every minute I had to spend in the heat. _Another hour and I would have killed someone,_ I thought gratefully as I rode into the shade. Fidella was no less grateful, giving a little sound of relief herself. The courtyard was a little less bare; fine mosaics adorned three of the walls, along with huge flags presumably conquered from enemies. An officer who rode with us shouted and the company turned. He screams an order in Kenshakeen, at which I am nonplussed, and then in my own language:  
"Back to the barracks, you sons of mooning dogs, and by the four Spheres of Destiny, any man who disturbs my little siesta will soon be deader than Demanitus. Understood?" He turns and saunters away without waiting for an answer.  
A dirty warrior next to me blows air out of his cheeks and smiles. "Candazeen is lots of fun really," he tells me.

"At least, compared to our good Prince."

  
  


"Don't touch my stuff," I warn the man next to me as I dump my small package beside my bed, a surprisingly comfortable-looking thing considering I'm just a mercenary. It actually has sheets, which has been far from guaranteed for me throughout my wanderings. But one closer look tells me they're filthy. I curse - as I often do - and decide to go and find out where I can get them cleaned. I might even look forward to my first rest here if I manage it. 

I skid through the fort corridors irritably. None of the servants so far understands me and I'm beginning to get impatient. I want to go to the market before dark and find something to eat at last. 

I come across another girl, who's carrying an unlit lamp. I calm myself and go up to her: "Do you understand me? I need these cle-" but she looks at me blankly. I lose my temper and scream "FUCK!" right in her face and slam my hand into the wall. She backs off in terror, her mouth forming an O and eyes widening helplessly; she almost drops the lantern, which would get her whipped if it broke. I storm off past her down the corridor. After ten paces I feel guilty and spin on my heel, running back to her. She squeaks when I tap her on the shoulder and begin saying sorry; her eyes lose their fright when she realises I'm no longer angry with her. I shuffle awkwardly in front of her. 

"Like I say, I'm really sorry. So. . . live and let live?" 

She narrows her eyes and slaps me hard in the face. 

I fall to my knees and roar with agony; the bitch got the worst part of my sunburn! It feels like red-hot knives pressed into my skin with a vengeance. Some of the peeling skin has come off; I wonder if I'm bleeding.  
"Fuck!" I moan and stumble on my knees trying to get up; I'm still practically blind with pain and fall into a wooden display stand, toppling it over and falling on my elbows onto the hard wood. A sharp corner digs into my abdomen and I moan again, resting my head on the wood. I hear a swishing of skirts and a stifled giggle as the girl moves away; I look up and see her looking back, half amused and half afraid for her life at this lunatic mercenary.

After half a minute of stewing in rage and despair I gingerly get up, brushing off my filthy clothes yet again. I try to carefully put the wooden stand back against the wall but I can't seem to get it right and smash it on the wall in frustration. "STUPID thing!"

I turn on my heel and thump down the corridor again.

And I'm usually so graceful in battle.

As I pass an opening in the wall, I hear deep laughter mingling with high, tinkling giggles, and look out of the window. A young man, partially obscured by the fronds of some lovely purple-flowered tree, stands before a sitting girl in a gossamer-like pink dress. I can't make out features clearly, but they have the night-black hair of this country and I somehow feel they're both beautiful. He wears a green coat and pale trousers, which suit him as well as the dress suits her light frame. He says something else and the girl laughs again, shifting her bare feet in the grass. 

As I look on the young lovers - as I thought - I'm instantly taken back to another time and place, on a cool day in March instead of the scorching Border Country spring. But she was worth a whole sun in herself, laughing and jumping for pure childlike joy beside me, until I couldn't help but smile myself, walking alongside her with my awkward gait. She ran ahead and did a leaping turn to face me, her toothy smile changing a little. Becoming more profound and beautiful, in a way that made me scared, somehow. Like she had left me behind and wanted me to catch up, so we could dance holding hands in the hills of the sun. But I was too childish. 

"Why don't you smile more, Cassandra?" the princess asked. The pale flowers of the cherry blossom swayed gently behind her, the more brilliant for the gloomy cloud behind. It was a contest for which was the loveliest, tree or princess, which I still judge today. Because I can see it just as clearly now in my dreams. 

"Do you not like me, darling? Why don't you smile at me?"

  
  


(Hear me now: I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I lo-)

  
  


_I could not give her a single thing,_ I thought dully, turning away from the window. Salty tears are cooling my throbbing cheek.

  
  


~

  
  


I finally find a white mercenary standing guard by the entrance to some hall. He looks in askance at my blood-red cheek but decides to say nothing. I ask him dully where I can get my bedsheets cleaned. He frowns as if the question had never occurred to him before.

"You don't get your bedsheets cleaned _for_ you," he says incredulously. "If you want 'em clean, you're gonna have to do 'em yerself."  
"Where can I do that?"  
He shrugs. "Don't know. Never thought of washing mine before."  
I look him up and down. "And how long have you been here?"  
He scratches his chin. "About ten years now. Yeah."  
"Well, rack your brains," I tell him, some of my crossness coming back despite my melancholy. "Where do the men wash?"  
"You saw the little river coming in? We all just get naked in that of a morning and wash us quick-like. You might want to find somewhere else, though, on account of your. . ." he flaps his hands vaguely at my body.  
"Thanks," I mutter.

After shouting at the merchant for a bit I managed to haggle the price of my dinner down - a vegetable stew that wasn't expensive but doesn't smell too bad, considering some of the things I've eaten on my travels. Try dead pony, reader. I see a man chomping at a meat pie with his remaining teeth, juice running down his chin as he stares at me. It's one of the rougher mercenaries I came in with, a brawny beast from somewhere I don't know, by his skin colour. He turns and walks away when I don't avert my gaze from his eyes; I just sit and try to enjoy my meal in the dying light.

A couple of children from the vineyard worker families are chewing slowly beside me, trying to savour every bite. A girl with a pair of dark brown braids shifts her eyes towards me and sees me looking curiously; she tilts her head towards her meal shyly and grins at me. I go over and hand them a thick carrot each; they're gobbled up quickly. If you're wondering why I didn't buy them any more, reader, remember that I hadn't even been paid yet, and mercenaries are lucky if they get their pay six months late. I had no wish to starve, and was showing enough ribs already (actually, you could see all of them). 

I'm about to leave the market when my eye is caught by the cloth-merchant's kiosk; I march over and demand " _Kos'ee qua'lan?"_ , which I've picked up to mean "how much is that?" After the predictable wrangling, he hands over my item. Now, I like clothes more than I like to admit - I had a secret stack of dresses hidden in the palace, which Rapunzel's probably found by now. But this was no pretty gown. 

I strode out of the fort courtyard into the inky night, making my way to the river. A few stars gaze at me overhead, providing me with the light to keep my footing as I find a flat spot. I undo my belt buckle and pull my tunic over my head. It's a relief to let my skin breathe after all that time under the baking sun and my sweat-stained clothes. I peel off my dark leggings and kick my boots away, and stand naked, my skin shining pale in the night. I shiver, but I won't be shivering half a minute from now; this is the perfect time to do this in such a roasting hot country. I dump my clothes in the river and draw my sword slowly, letting it shine at me; I've kept it religiously clean over the past two years, no matter how dirty the rest of me got. I draw a deep breath and begin my exercises, sword whistling through the cool air like a snake striking a succession of prey. I warm up, and feel the blood flowing and the good ache in my working arms. The muscles shift visibly in my skinny torso; my feet move about like an expert dancer's. I pant heavily, taut legs flexing as they strain to keep me shifting over the dirt. A line of sweat trickles down my back with the effort, but I'm enjoying myself a lot; I haven't had the chance to be alone in the night for too long, and exercise has always been the purest pleasure to me. 

I bathe in the river that night, letting my hot limbs cool in the flow of water. Now that I can't see that ugly fort or its hideous denizens, I can almost like this country. There is a special starkness to its rust-coloured hills and bare rock and iron-hard ground that suit me to my core. Once I'm dry I pull on the new clothes I got at the market; a pale robe reaching to my calves, tied with a white cord just above the hips, and a cloth to cover my neck from the torture from the sky.  
Finally, I take out my real purchase today. A pure black length of cloth, thin but strong; I wrap it round my head one, two, three, four times, and tie it off securely like the merchant showed me. From now on, I'm going to be the mercenary in a mask. I am going to give nobody a reminder of my sex, or my youth; men will see me as a faceless demon before I kill them. 

_And I'm definitely not going to let the southern sun touch my face again_ ; I touch my raw cheeks tenderly through the material.

Coming back up the hill to the fort, I actually let myself smile. 

Going back to my bed I see a light is on at my end of the barracks, where the new recruits sleep. The fit young mercenary from the group I came in with is holding a candle, sat on his bed. He's shirtless, flexing an admittedly fine bicep and cooing to himself at his virility. I enjoy the sight of the lean, muscular chest for a second before he looks up expectantly. I realise he was waiting for me to come back so he could show off his goods, and because of the boy's vanity, I ignore him despite the sudden leap in fiery joy that rushes through my lower regions and stomach. He shoots me a dark look as I walk past him, then blows out the light, which is a relief because another second with my sight trained on that lithe young body and I would have jumped on him, consequences be damned. I get in bed with my headscarf on instead.

In case you didn't know, vigorous exercise 'stimulates' you in certain ways - to put it plainly, you feel a little more alive and a lot more frisky for a whole day. And since I exercise hard every day, you can guess at the consequences I face, some pleasurable, some not. And given the prevalence of diseases of the nether regions among mercenaries - well, I've had to sip from other wells than men, when I can get them. Not that I complained; I might even tell you about those girls, when I have time. 

Not Rapunzel, though. I never bedded her; nevertheless, about her I will not tell. 

Not Raps.


	4. Fate Looms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra gets some answers; the Prince sets a great crisis in motion; Cassandra meets a pair who will change her life in every way.

I strode into the great chamber and ignored the stares from the guards ringed around the walls. They quickly realised who I was under the mask - I do have breasts, after all - but a couple mutter to each other; soldiers don't go veiled in this country, or anywhere. The funereal black suits me, though, I think. All that they can see are my eyes and my tanned hands - and my vicious sword. I take my place on the wall and look around warily.

Four densely-packed thick walls to keep the sun's rays well away; vividly coloured hangings over a large carved chair for the Prince; racks of degraded weapons by the walls to show the Fort's martial history. It's my kind of room, I think, although the sweat rolls down my cheek as I do so.

The prince sweeps in with all his bulk, followed by a train of guards in glinting Kenshakeen armour - something we don't have, as filthy mercenaries. Despite the sweat shining on his creased face, the Prince moves with vigour, as if something is driving him beyond the power of the heat. I wonder what it is that makes that man seem like he's - well, charging forward; but charging like the ferocity of a cornered animal. Something that'd mean I'm penned in the corner with him. 

Behind him steps a finely dressed young man - no, _the_ finely dressed young man I saw in the garden, with the girl in pink. It can only be he - the grace, the black mop of hair, the confidence sitting solid in his frame. Is he the son of the Prince? _Good thing he didn't catch me spying on him,_ I think.

The fat sultan rests his body on the great chair, and all the guards, including the one with the curly dark hair reaching to her shoulders, stand up straighter. I wrap my hands around my weapon and wonder whether I might finally get some idea of what is going to happen at the Fort while I'm here - there's obviously something spurring the need for the urgent preparations I see going on around me; it might tell me how I'm going to be employed, beyond standing sweating in a throne room. It might be danger - a thought that jolts the old thrill of anticipated combat in me, though maybe I shouldn't be so keen. This is new territory, after all, and to the south of the Fort are some things I should be prudent not to face, from what I hear. The Depths of the Desert - what an opportunity to die gloriously.

And the Prince hinted I have some special role in all this. Which seems unlikely - why would he pick me of all people, when he'd only just met me? There are plenty of tougher-looking warriors here. What is this 'task' I'm supposed to perform?

"Under the Bounteous Sun whose rays we feel as a lover's touch; by the lovely gushing of the waters blessed of the Land; for the furious defence of these holy holds which we keep under the gentle wind granted to us. . ." So drones the portly steward standing by the Prince's throne; at least, that's what I now surmise him to have said, given my greater acquaintance with the language now. Still, after two months in this country, I get the gist. Kenshakeen of all Forts, not just this, like to talk this way. Candazeen the Captain of Guards, out of the Prince's line of sight, slumps in place and mops his brow wearily.

"-does the Sacred Prince's person remain protected in his Keep, with all that belongs to him under his benevolent watch-" _and his rough mercenary guards,_ thinks I - "and all traitors to him under his wise-knowing eye. Let the Prince be heard at his leisure."

A silence that seems strangely muffled falls over us and the handful of dignitaries seated on cushions inbetween the rows of guards - usually there are more, but this message was rumoured to be for the soldiers' ears - and all eyes flick to the Prince. Except the two vicious desert warriors slouching a pace in front of Candazeen, who are lazily watching the guards all around. Their ease is fake, though - I know because their gazes are darting back and forth over the men but missing all the regular soldiers; they're only watching the mercenaries for treachery. They do not trust us and I don't blame them. One pair of deep black eyes stares into mine for a second, and I'm chilled.

I wonder what they can use to kill; if those short blades can be flung over distance. I measure it up and find I'd be too far - but I've seen the speed of the best desert fighters and I would be hard-pressed to survive against one, if he came at me. The dark eyes stand still in his head, wrapped in cloth but with the brown face left bare. Scars criss-cross the features like they've been there since his first breath. The eyes flick away and I immediately stand up straighter when I realise the Prince is beginning.

"You all are aware of the need to defend our well-watered home here in the valley," the velvet foghorn sounds out. The Prince's eyes move as little as they normally do; his body is perfectly still. "This need has always been present. Candazeen has done well in this role, despite his liking for wine." I wince instinctively; the Prince appears not to have realised that his words would have an effect, but he must be putting Candazeen down at the same time as praising him. Doesn't pay to let him get bigheaded.

The Prince's snake stare fixes on us. _"Now_ we could all be dead and burnt ashes within two years, or perhaps slaves; I cannot yet calculate this precisely."

A pause. Then the soldiers shuffle on the hard floor, a couple whispering in disbelief. My jaw has dropped. I knew this could be dangerous, but my own employer is telling me we have an enemy too strong to handle after only a month here? Telling me? Why does he think we won't just run and save our skins, if not our money? 

"Beyond our allied wild tribes to the south and by the mountains east and west of here, the desert kingdoms are stirring. The Hernomads and their brutal ways are no longer to be confined to their own petty disputes, it seems; therefore, we stand in the way of their traditional treatment of conquered enemies." We wait to hear what this could entail. "Efficient massacre of townsfolk, strangling of the nobility, burning for the leaders of resistance to them, children torn apart for their dogs' feed. And total domination of one's lands afterwards, naturally," informs this frightful bastard - all in that same tone of voice. Like the cold of desert sands at night. 

A second of unearthly silence, and then Candazeen prostrates himself before his ruler. "Great Prince, I beg leave to ask - is this sudden change to be ascribed to the occurrences in the Desert Depths in recent times? Travellers have spoken. . ."  
The Prince looks down his nose at his captain of guards. "There are no unusual occurrences in the Depths. Beyond the explosion of Hernomads, naturally."  
Candazeen cringes. "But they are only on the outer rim of the Depths - nobody knows what is further inside. . ." he backs off when wrinkles appear on the sides of the Prince's eyes, a sure sign of peril. The Captain rejoins the two desert men, staring at the ground blankly.

"We shall take extraordinary steps to secure our home from these southern wanderers. At the end of the week we shall venture beyond the Fort Pass and speak to the tribes beyond the mountains; they will serve as my bulwark against what comes from yet further into the desert. Many, as you know, do not even take the oaths of allegiance to this Fort's ruler; some remain who never said them. Now they will, for they have need of my walls and my foreign mercenaries. I shall become the greatest ruler of this Fort in all its five hundred years, even if I do not defeat these savages." He still hasn't shifted a bone this whole speech, but he seems totally relaxed. His face remains still.

Unlike some. The mercenaries and natives are shifting warily, and I wouldn't bet against one of them running for it. Someone anticipates this.

"Should some think of abandoning my lands in their need," the ruler intones mellowly, "I warn them against it. My Kenshakeen are furious against the foreign invader, and will not take kindly to men shirking their duty. None shall leave this place until I command it. And none shall die unless I allow it; any soldier who kills another shall feel the fitting punishment. My lands will be filled with soldiers willing to stand to the last man."

The Prince stands. "The tribes. Four days." He sweeps out, leaving Candazeen and the guards, the two desert men walking after like deadly cats.  
  
I mope through the ground floor, eyes fixed on the dirty rugs at my feet, plodding somewhere I don't know. Servants pass me, and it seems their movements are more hurried than usual. 

_Might be killed and turned to ashes? What a turn for the better my life has taken. I come to a new country, a fresh start, and am told I will die again, far from home, for this fat monster in red silk who seems to root you to the ground with his eyes. What an end for someone who held the power of the Moon in her hand._ I clench my fists in rage. _No, for a girl who couldn't keep a single friend her whole life, who fixated herself on power and nearly killed everyone she loved because of it. Who was too pathetic to go through with it, and only lives because her friend is so much better than her._ Perhaps it is a rather appropriate death for me after all. 

I pass Sazal, the young man who likes to leap and is so lethal with a blade. He seems to be looking for someone, but I glare at him as I go by and he scowls back. I regret this afterwards, since I feel a hot twinge in my body at the sight of him - I'm still full to bursting, so to speak, having gone so long without. Besides, he's surely feeling just as chipper as I am at all this; maybe a rough coupling could take both our minds off it . . . But I don't go back. I don't trust him still, or most of the mercenaries.

I pass into a sudden light so quickly I stop dead, blinking. A drooping rose bush nearly brushes my head; this and a hundred other scents fill me in a sudden blooming of sense - some familiar, like roses, but also jasmine, citrus, chamomile, lavender, rosemary, mint, juniper; and then the flowers: dianthus, hyacinth, peonies, honeysuckle, and so many I still don't know. The courtyard is lined with seemingly random arrays of gorgeous flowers and shrubs, somehow so suited to Kenshaka in their natural vividness and sparsity. Nothing seems overcrowded; each lovely twining vine and ungroomed bush stands apart in its own perfection. 

_No,_ I realise, _it is perfect because nobody keeps this garden perfect; it is allowed to grow as it should._ This is no overworked formal garden; it can't see a gardener more than once a week. It feels like a sight into a world where this beauty occurs all by itself.

Well, I have gathered a few memories I cherish like nothing I own; the brief ecstasy with that farmgirl in the forest country; the sea actually freezing around Corona during that cursed winter; the sun setting on the lost warriors of Central Jearadin the hour before their final stand - and the hidden garden of Kenwala, the haven within. I can still smell it when I lie down to sleep, which only one other living can say. (I won't tell you who the other is - you'll know.) These are things few have ever seen and nobody will ever see again, and _I_ was one who did.

I take a step further in; a gentle wind blows a new smell to my nose, which I let poke out from my veil. This one smells like nothing I've come across before; a tangy, sharp spice that could only come from this part of the earth. I come to a small tree and gape, craning my neck to look up at the small fruits swaying over my head. I almost reach out to take one before I realise there is somebody behind the tree. 

He hasn't noticed me; he stands tall with a wicked-looking scimitar at his waist, looking at something in front of him. From his clothing and dark hair I realise he is the Prince's son and heir himself. 

I could be in terrible trouble for being here, I realise. Sneaking up on the second-most important personage for a hundred miles might get my head cut off. 

I'm just creeping away, something I'm practiced at, when I think - of _course_ \- the Prince won't kill me. He might, if he weren't conserving every soldier he possibly could - and had some secret task for me. Besides, I was not threatening some vulnerable thing - the Prince had a sword and knew how to use it, I could see. And moreover, _Cassandra doesn't run._ So I stride out towards him, deliberately allowing my steps to be heard.


	5. Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Welcome, Rapunzel of Corona."

_"In the desert, everything goes as expected, which is why desert dwellers are comfortable in tradition. Things occasionally happen that no-one could expect, which is the source of the immensity of changes to desert cultures, when they do come."_ \- The Horseman, _Travels_

The young man turned rapidly on his heel, but he grinned when he saw who it was. I suddenly recalled something myself when I saw him standing there - back to the day when I first reached the Prince's domains and met a richly-dressed warrior by the ruler's side. He, the young god I saw from the window, this handsome prince looking into my face now - all the same man. As he calls out his greeting I notice a figure to his right.

"Young mercenary. How bold of you to come into the Prince's own private garden - and when you have duties no less. The stars must shine fondly on you, for you to wander where you please as if you are some _princess_ \- sister, come and see this soldier!" he turns to what I am busy admiring and trying not to. A young lady, clad in a gown of a white material that looks enchanted by gods, idly trailing a delicate frond in the water and along the back of her hand (I imagine, in a thought that curls my stomach, the divine softness of that skin). She doesn't look up, but curls her toes luxuriously in the great circle of grass around the central fountain of her courtyard. I'm reminded of a cat wilfully ignoring its owners - because it feels it owns _them_ \- only, there was never a cat with such midnight tresses falling across her pale shoulders, twining cosily around her delicate frame, hanging luxuriantly almost to the ground. Her face is hidden from me by these shining locks, which causes a twinge of annoyance in me, even though I have quite something else to look at.

"It seems she is less than interested in you," a smooth voice tells me sorrowfully. I tear my eyes away and quickly forget about her even as the white figure rises and glides off into the garden. The prince is talking to me. "That may be her mistake; she suspects who you are and knows that you are not a suitable enemy. Although she has not been lucky enough to look on your face, as I have." He smiles cautiously.

I'm fixed on another face than my own: heavenly silky skin encompassing warm, intelligent brown eyes. . . all framed by the astonishing black hair he shares with his sister. My eyes trace the strong nose, firm jaw, and plump lips, and I swallow under my mask. His words hit me a few seconds later - some of them.  
"My face was a burned mess when you first saw me . . . Your Highness," I force out stupidly. A second later, other words hit me. " _Who_ do you think I am?" 

He grins. "I am Firduz, son of Keder, Prince of Kenwala-a-Kenshaka and this fort's guardian; I was going to meet you soon anyway. Do not feel the need to curtsey. As for who you are . . . that is more fun if we do not say it, isn't it?" 

I stand there in the Southern robe and black mask, confused and on guard. This prince has clearly mistaken me for someone - unless - could he actually know about me and my deeds with the Moonstone? If so, he is hardly going to invite me in for tea. I earned a black reputation in those days, in certain parts of the world at least. This could lead to execution. I sweat under my robe and stare at him.

But he changes tack. "Come and sit by me on the fountain." He crosses onto the grass and sits gracefully; I follow and settle cautiously with a foot between us. "How do you find our country, stranger?" 

"I like it," I tell him, truthfully, though I'm still seething to know what it is he's not telling me. The wind blows a superb petal onto my shoulder and I brush it off. "The sparse land suits me, and there's something soothing about the rocky mountains around us. It feels like an honest land, and . . . hard. I like that, for some reason." I find he's easier to talk to than I expected.

He chuckles. "Honest? That's not what I would call it. My people are as fond of flowery words as they are of plotting. You will see some of that in the coming years." _If I stay here that long_. 

"How do you mean?" 

"The Prince and I - and you - will be heading into the desert to meet our tribal cousins. They are different from us, true, but they are Kenshakeen . . . which is why we must be devious if we want them on our side. We have some plans in motion, as you have surmised."

"Yes, I did," I snap. "Will you tell me something about them?"

"We will be having tournaments, as we always do, in the camps of the desert. You will win for us." He turns his dark head towards me expectantly.

"You want me to be your champion?" I ask incredulously. 

"Fear not - you will be one of many fighters entering this tournament -" 

"- I wasn't scared -"

"-but you will be victorious against the desert _yanawalleen_ , for you have secret weapons, do you not?"

I stare at him and decide to play along; no harm in his thinking I'm more dangerous than I am. Though I can't fathom why he thinks this. "Of course, Highness. I am skilled with our western large swords and small, whatever you like."

"May I see this one?" Firduz asks, extending a hand graciously. I unstrap my sword and hand it to him. He looks it over with a critical eye. "This is a good one, though I am not familiar enough with western designs. Is it from Corona?"

"Yes."

He smiles knowingly. "Of course." He returns it and I think for a second I'd like to sock him in the face; I know when someone is acting sly.

We sit together for a moment in the sun; to the sound of tinkling water, I contemplate my near future with trepidation. If these desert warriors are the same as the guards I saw around Prince Keder, the yanawalleen . . . I'm going to have to _go in the ring_ with them? Not for the first time, I get the feeling Cassandra's life has a short fuse on it. 

"The Prince my father has some special things for you to do for him," continues the gorgeous cockerel suddenly. "And for me, in fact. I believe he has not told you what they are?"

"What on earth are you talking about?" I snap. I'm tired of feeling lost again in this hideous fort. Though this is a nice part of it to be lost in - with him - I admit. 

"I hope you're ready to bear a child."

"What?!"

He regards me seriously. "I do not feel comfortable saying all of it. But, it must be said eventually. . ." Dumbfoundingly, he kneels in front of me. A prince! I gape at him. "It is fortuitous that you come here at this time, great one; my country is in need of you. . . and so am I. Such a strong one as you will achieve yet more great things and begin a legendary line; I am the young prince who has waited to fulfil his severe duties . . . in which you shall help. It is decided by fate that you will bear my children and let us win this struggle with your immense power!" 

I don't know whether to laugh or scream. I shoot to my feet. "I'm a mercenary. That's all I will ever be to you. No bedsharing, or childbearing. I won't be your slut, or your - _concubine!_ You can count on it, you madman!"

He stands in a fury, his dark eyes like hot coals. "Is that what you think you will be here? You may go on with this charade as long as you like, hiding among common mercenaries - I expect you enjoy it greatly, for reasons unknown to me. But someday you will emerge from this and stand by my side against all comers - Corona and Kenshaka together! We can take all of my country for ourselves - this valley is just one of many I can drop in your blessed lap, as one plucks the pearls of the ocean for his lover! You will be my wife, my queen and ruler standing equal to me!"

He's a lunatic. Or . . . an idea buds in my mind. "Who do you think I am?" I ask hoarsely.

He checks his passion and gives a little bow. " _Welcome,_ Princess Rapunzel, to your new kingdom."

I stare at him, the name bringing a tear to my eye for some reason. His words seem obscene to me, in a myriad of ways. Is this why the Prince took an instant interest in me? He noticed my clothes were of sophisticated Corona design - thanks to Rapunzel's final gift to me - and thought I was a lady. The ruling family here could easily have heard of Rapunzel's habit of wandering, and of getting her hands dirty - I suppose it isn't too far-fetched to suspect a young woman coming from Corona seeking adventure so brazenly is actually a magical princess. 

But I feel hollowed out by his words. Even here, can I not escape the fact that the princess of Corona overshadows me in every way? Can I not carve out a life for myself?

"I am not Rapunzel, Your Highness," I tell him quietly. I fight down my biting fury - it's no help here. He starts to protest. "No, I am really not; though I am from Corona. My name was - is - Cassandra." I decide to leave out details about my rampage and my former magical powers. "I have come here simply to survive, though I'm ashamed to say it. I was a knight errant in the north, but I ran into trouble a few times, and . . . eventually I had no silver left to keep my horse, so it was mercenary work or sell her. I can fight, so it's a trade I'm somewhat suited for." _Though this isn't the way I wanted to guard a palace, being called a dirty foreign mercenary. I was meant to guard another palace, but that figment I threw away long ago._ "I am nobody special, but I wish to work for my coin and my respect; not to get comfortable and fat being somebody's whore."

He baulks and looks at me, thinking furiously. Finally he says, "You have coarse language; I can almost believe you are not she. But the Princess would have learned such terms rapidly after leaving her kingdom." His face calms a little. "Princess or not, wife or not, the stars align and so do my needs. We must have a strong warrior on our side for the coming fights; I must have great children to defend our country when I reign and after, and you can provide these amply. My father and I want a healthy, beautiful white woman to enrich our line - and here you are."

My anger comes boiling back. "I am not your breeding sow, you - ah!" something touches me from behind, but gently. 

Firduz's sister leans across my body, her soft hair brushing my shoulder as she shakes her head, as if exasperated, at her brother. She steps back to examine me from further away, nodding in approval this time. "This is simply a superb specimen for my beloved sibling to join his body to, I think. I have never seen a woman with such an athletic frame, so confident a stance." I dumbly note her fine features and - oh, goodness, that scent as she - 

Her hand reaches out and plucks at my sleeve. "I bet you have the most wonderful skin," she says, without a hint of either jealousy or attraction. Her fingers brush my hand quickly, as if she wants a handshake. "Yes! Soft as a baby's. Now let's just see here -" she begins to tug up my sleeve to the top of my arm; I squeak and almost jump out of my skin. "That'll be enough, _Your Highness_ -" I yank my sleeve back to cover my skin, though she's already examined it at her leisure. I grab onto my mask to keep her from taking _that_ off; my cheeks begin to redden.

She continues without answering. "Oh, indeed, by my four heart-abiding stars - that is such pale skin. Any man of this country would kill another to win the touch of that porcelain artistry. But what of the ram, the stag, the bull?" She glides over to Prince Firduz, her white gown whispering around her smooth ankles. She takes ahold of his lovely hair and tugs his head down for me to inspect, running her slender fingers through the black locks. "The finest hair our five hundred years of breeding could produce," she sings out. She lets his head go and runs her fingers down her brother's clean-shaven cheek. "Exquisite pale brown skin for the northern lady to enjoy -" I get the feeling she's unable to stop herself moving her attention from the good of producing children to the pleasure she imagines our bed would see - "and the fullest pink lips." She pulls one down to show me its extent, then kisses him gently on it. I can't help comparing the two faces side by side and lodging their beauty in my mind: together the siblings are breathtaking. 

"For the strong lady the stars have chosen for us -" her hands move to Firduz's arm - "a manly appendage, capable of cutting down any villain who threatens the gentleman's lady - or his dear sister." She lifts the arm and squeezes the muscles hard, her delicate mouth forming a little O. "Imagine those wrapped around you; I, of course, don't have to imagine, though they would do more for his chosen wife. What she really needs, though, is _this!_ " - she seizes his entire manhood and thrusts it at me, gasping in mock awe. "Such incredible size and vigour! Our prize stallion is one no discerning female will miss, I am sure. A _rare_ virility . . ." she giggles helplessly and lets her brother drop, resting her gorgeous head on his shoulder. 

I shake in outrage and nervousness. "I've seen enough of your bull, thank Your Highnesses. I don't know your name, but I think you are improper, my lady." Under my anxiety, I realise I am almost fatally aroused and nearly pitch over from the force of it. I prepare myself to leave.

"This is Canna, Princess," Firduz says cheerfully; he seems a lot happier with his sister draped across him like a pet. "She likes to play games. But she is in agreement with me: the Prince will have you fight in front of the tribes this week and then a courtship will begin, ending in our conceiving an heir together. In Kenshaka we can read the stars and tell what they decree for our future; your fate is inextricably linked to my family's. You may not marry me or rule beside me, but you will bear my child - Rapunzel, or Cassandra, if you wish." 

"We'll see about that," I croak, spinning around and half-running from the garden.


	6. Hot Blood

_Nothing is as powerful as youth."_ \- Common Eastern saying.

When I reach the mudstone corridors I actually am running, tearing past passing figures with abandon. _Am I going to fight for a family who want me to breed for them?_ I think. _Yes, of course I am; I am stuck here like everyone else as the thread of doom winds tighter around us._

_Wow, I can be almost poetic when I'm in an appalling situation._

I hunt the part of the fort where I know somebody prowls in his time off; I may have a way to tell the royals to shove it and solve the problem of my twisting insides. _Am I going to be_ that _kind of woman? Nonsense - what I'm about to do is a rare thing for me. But I should be getting ready to fight in a few days! I will, of course - fight for them, because I am a warrior and a proud one. I don't care if they think I'm fated to be important to them,_ that _isn't happening._ My jumbled thoughts end suddenly. I charge into a side room where Sazal, the other handsome beast of the Fort, is talking to some pretty servant girl, reaching out to touch her hair.

"Out!" I bark at her, though I notice her cute little nose and abundant lips and firm bosom and change my mind as quickly. "No - block the doorway and watch, or face the Prince's displeasure." She gazes at me perplexed, until I move to slap her and she scurries away, mouth falling open as she watches me and Sazal squaring up to each other. 

"You arrogant bastard," I growl at him, watching his powerful muscles for any threat. "You strut about your Prince's stronghold like some manly prize with a succulent fruit in your mouth, as if every man wants to be you and every woman wants to bed you. You know to your bones that you can face off with any man and leave him quivering on the floor, that you deserve to be a legend." I unwind the veil from my face, exposing my healed skin, the cheeks glowing pink. "And you've never doubted your manly vigour, have you?" I breathe out into his face, staring brazenly into his eyes.

"I'm not convinced. Now, are you going to show me you're a man?" 

He stares at me, my chest heaving and me cheeks flushed, my hair a wild tangle to my shoulders. "You're mad," he growls back. But he detaches himself from the wall and approaches, grabbing the sides of my head. I shove him back mightily and he curses, hitting his back on the wall. His dark eyes flash with embarrassed fury; he comes at me with main force, pressing his body against mine until I'm almost lifted off my feet. I grab him and force him against me, raising my eyebrow at his size and iron hardness; whatever that arrogant girl Canna said about her brother, this is the real thing. I let him rub through our clothes for a second before he tears my sword from my body, where it was sticking into both of us. He unbuckles his belt frenziedly, leaving me to expose myself, pulling my long robe over my head and shaking my hair - grown too long - over my shoulders. This is the first time a man has seen my breasts in a year at least, and I like the idea that he's enjoying it. 

Sazal seizes them and as he does so pulls aside the remnants of my clothes, burying his face in my neck where his mouth works. A shame; I just can't admire his physique with him bent over me like that. I grunt angrily and smash his body, off-balance, into the cabinet next to us. The servant girl shrieks and covers her mouth, looking over her shoulder in fear, then back. Her face belies her scream, though: she's enjoying this more than us, if anything; her face is red with ashamed lust, her eyes bright. I grin at her just before Sazal gets up from the shattered furniture, raging.

"What are you-" we grapple ferociously, falling onto a low table, which breaks beneath us, bringing us to the floor with a winding thump. I elbow him in the stomach, however, to weaken him so he can't overpower me yet. But he does, seizing me by the hips and forcing me over, cracking my head on some furniture piece, at which I groan in pain and erotic incoherence. His mouth meets mine hotly, and we end up going at it right there on the ruined floor, my muscles heaving with all their strength against his, which inevitably win, leaving mine deliciously sore and me a fortunate slave to his animal wishes. After months of brewing up with no outlet, I reach a climax seems to move my very core; gasping and clenching my fists and riding him like an overworked racehorse; and two minutes later, another one, leaving me wrung out and worn. I glance up at the girl, who hasn't budged her feet an inch during this whole tryst, her mouth open hotly and her eyes as wide as saucers. I almost giggle when I think of what she thinks of this little encounter; or what she thought when she saw my face with the inferno in the eyes and the sweat-limp hair clinging to it and the cheeks an unnatural red, staring straight at her. When I beckon to her to join us, she squeaks and, hitching up her skirt, sprints off away from the beasts rolling on the floor. A shame, that; she was a fine little piece, and I don't get much female company here, something that eventually grates on you. 

My southern stallion finally finishes and lies back, exhausted and pleased. I ignore the pulsing ache in my limbs and begin to dress, smiling broadly, which must be a sight for Sazal to see, given he's never really even seen my face. I am the miserable one of the bunch, normally. 

His eyes roll to me. "What was that f-"

"Shut up." I pull my boot on and wind the cloth around my face, ready to go.

He stares at me. "Are you completely insane?"

I think about that; and about my raising by a psycho mother, my alienation at the castle, my obsession with blades and death, my hand being roasted for a best friend, my utter loneliness and despair with the Moonstone in my chest - and yes, I probably am a little bit deranged.

But I'm not the only one in this fort, as I found out today.

"Wait!" he growls. "At least tell me your name." He looks a little out of his depth; surprising, for a confident young man like this. But then, I can be a little intense, can't I?

"Cassandra - that's no secret."

He frowns. "You never told any of us in the barracks. Why aren't you ever friendly with us?"

"You're a bunch of rough soldiers," I inform him. "I prefer to train and get ready for the enemies I'm going to face - which might include you for all I know."

"Not me - hey, who is it here who's threatening you?"

I scowl and pass through the doorway. "I don't need your help to defend myself, Sazal. Goodbye." And if turning down help in a place like this sounds incredibly reckless and stupid, well, you're right. But then, from the sound of things it might be this lunatic royal family I'm going to have to defend myself from. As I defend them from their mortal enemies, no less! 

~

  
I'm on post on the southern wall, on a tower above our barracks; my job is to watch the southern horizon for any sign of movement towards us, a task Candazeen chose for me for my excellent eyesight. It means I get to stand still, at least - only I hate that. Movement always gives me the relief of freedom - especially when I know I'm hemmed in like a fox in a trap. I gaze towards the great desert and groan softly. What monsters are going to come out of those dunes, and the faceless Depths beyond, straight at me? 

_Enough,_ I tell myself. I'm stronger than this. I whip out my short sword and let it dart in front of me at imaginary targets, my feet moving automatically to keep the direction of the illusionary fight in my hands. I only let it last for a moment, but I feel better, stronger. Whatever I face, I have a better chance of surviving than most - even Sazal, for all his strength. I wonder what I'd feel if he died; probably not much, I admit to myself. Is it immoral to do the deed with someone and leave it at that?

I rest myself on the worn parapet and let out breaths into the cooling night. I have the privilege of seeing the desert sunset from high up; luminous orange bedecking the sandy soil and glinting on the slow river to the north; divine golds in the lowest part of the sky. I find myself imagining Rapunzel standing there barefoot, painting the scene before me, turning her head to grin eagerly.

The vision dissipates after a moment; of course, _someone_ in Fort Kenwala thinks Rapunzel really is up here. I groan again at the thought of Prince Firduz and his shrew of a sister. I wonder if the Prince is in on this. Oh, no doubt he saw potential for a strong heir in me, but does he entertain the fantasy that I'm the future ruler of a western kingdom? It would be a bold move to put such a dignitary on the front line of your war - unless she had superpowers, of course. No doubt either the Prince or his son thinks I'll win the war for them, and happily go to bear a child for them after. A betting man would probably put his money on the Prince getting his way; he has the power here and has locked me in with him, and I hardly think my chances are so rosy going toe-to-toe with him. _Not that I won't try, if it comes to that._

~  
  


In the barrack room the men are playing cards, as usual, to vanquish their gloom. They've been tense ever since the Prince's announcement, as you might expect, and there's a surly atmosphere on top of the natural manly bristliness you get in a group of mercenaries. I walk over the rough tiles, shrugging my sword belt off my shoulder. I want to exercise, but I have already and need to rise early tomorrow for my dungeon shift. But a rough voice calls to me.

"Woman! You're no stoic yanawallah; come play with us." Some big ogre in leather and a beard, staring at me over his cards. A Kenshakeen huffs over his pipe and raps out words to the effect of getting on with it, not even seeming to notice me. I realise he must be on the magic powder they smoke here, that turns your brain to mush for an hour. Candazeen has banned it; we need to be ready for battle at any time.

I notice Sazal is lounging beside him, one boot on his thigh; maybe I imagine it, but he seems to be basking in our encounter earlier. I think I'm still a little aglow myself. I sigh and walk over; it doesn't do to piss off your fellow-soldiers. I'll watch my cards and my drink, though.

"Usual rules," grunts a ginger. I'm no mean hand at cards myself, though I've got in a fair few fights over it over the years. I win the first hand, raising a few eyebrows on men who didn't think I even knew the rules. I shakily collect my copper winnings, but determine to go into the next round - and I'll win whatever these mugs think of it.

Sazal the young cockerel wins handsomely, chuckling at the loser. "Think that's funny, do ya?" rumbles a dark soldier from who knows where. He's close with the man who lost, maybe too close - half the barracks think they _fuck_ each other like perverts (what kind of freak lies with their own _sex?_ \- I think of Sazal's skin on mine), which gives them no end of ribbing. I'm still dreamily concentrating on sweat-drenched muscles when a flash of steel emerges and buries itself in the dark man's chest; he coughs and looks down in disbelief. Then the bell rings to announce the Captain's coming for inspection and all at once we are up and lunging; Sazal wrenches his dagger out of the man's chest and flings it across the room; the bearded man leaps at the bleeding man's friend, knocking him to the floor; ginger grapples for a grip on the victim's frame, heaving him towards a dark corner; I just lunge to snatch Opium's pipe out of his mouth and fling it out of the window. I glance around and am about to gasp - _the blood-soaked knife is on my damn_ bed! when Candazeen's footsteps halt outside the battered wooden door. 

The men not holding down the victims sit down frantically at the table as the door swings open, looking nothing like men enjoying a relaxing game of cards, and more like panicked schoolchildren - the cards are either face-up on the table or on the floor. (And what could I do but join them? Saunter over to my bed and casually toss a glinting knife out of the window in front of Candazeen? "Just my nightly habit, Captain. . .") Luckily, Opium - who's so blasted, he hasn't noticed a thing this whole time - blurts out all nonchalant: "It's play now, men - Podayi order of gaming. I really don't know what's been keeping you, but I'm starting to think about bedtime." 

And I'll be damned if that didn't save all our skins. For a few seconds, at least.

Candazeen sits tiredly at our table, his eyes hooded. The Prince must be working him hard for once, given the war preparations. We all like him as much as we can like a superior officer, but if he finds we've killed or disabled a man - it's beheading for us all, or perhaps a more painful flogging over days, to teach the rest a lesson. The Prince does not suffer his soldiers dying. I feel a disgusting amount of sweat instantly force its way out of me, running in rivulets down my back, soaking my hair and underarms. If he does the inspection with half an eye open, he'll find a blooded dagger on my bed, and a bleeding man dying in the corner. Perhaps if it were the Prince I could plead clemency for being his chosen female; but it's Candazeen, who presumably has no idea I'm supposed to be important and will chop my _head_ off to serve the law. I certainly can't rely on the word of any of the men; these will throw me and their grandmother to the dogs to save their hides. 

My hooded eyes flick to Ginger, whose eyes do the same, and to Sazal, who is apparently cool as a cucumber, studying his cards. I burn at the sight of him; try to kill a man in front of us and make it our problem - and possibly setting off a riot that could end in more deaths - and then chucking his murder weapon onto my bed? And be so calm about it? I feel anger and a little apprehension at him; what kind of savage boy have I involved myself with?

The Captain shuffles and deals absently. I pick my cards up, willing my hands steady - which they are. A slight rustle from the corner where the dark one's being held down - and his wound staunched, as I later find out - and the Kenshakeen next to me breathes out softly, uttering a prayer under his breath. I firmly place a card.

"Some nerves in you tonight, Jonai," Candazeen says, gulping his wine. "I hope you're not worried about the war, my friend. We have our steel and our strong walls. Besides; for what it's worth, the Prince is unfazed, and Firduz is not scared at all, and he knows more about our plans than I do." 

_Yeah, apparently he does. I'm supposed to be a secret weapon, or his future wife - or both._. Jonai just nods.

Somehow I sweat through two games of cards without anyone blowing our cover. Candazeen doesn't help by sighing, tipping his head back, and mopping his brow, gazing distractedly into the room where men are straining to keep the silence. As the night has swallowed any trace of light outside, Candazeen drapes his cloak around him again and goes to leave. 

"It's been a good night, gentlemen. Just what I needed - my five holy stars told me so." We stand for him, nodding. 

"Congratulations on your winnings, Captain," beams Sazal. With so many comrades' glares on him, you'd have expected him to catch fire.

It seems blessedly over, but Candazeen turns and looks at me; my heart jumps into my throat. 

"You need to come with me."


	7. The Rattlesnake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, we're well over halfway through this section of the story. Plenty of meat left before we see the last of the Fort, though! Cass will finally get to prove herself - or otherwise - in the grand desert tournament next chapter. Let's hope our girl does well.
> 
> If you're waiting with baited breath for the really juicy bits promised in the plot summary, don't worry - they're rushing headlong towards us, and they really will be juicy, I promise. I have a wealth of ideas in stock for you, just you wait. 
> 
> Oh, and if you were wondering whether the Arabian-esque princess would turn out to be Jasmine - I thought about it, and decided it would mean a total character shift. Jasmine is pretty sweet, and Canna . . . she's lovely in some ways, but not sweet.

Candazeen led me solemnly down the staircase through flickering torchlight. He seems grim today, which was upsetting to see on someone normally so laid-back (at least, with himself - he enjoyed his drink and his naps even while he bawled at us to work harder). Overworked and underappreciated perhaps - or, considering he was leading me to some unknown destination away from the troops, facing some hard task? Execution? No, he hadn't seen anything of the stabbing, I was sure of that. 

_Firduz._ It had to be he. Who else would lead me away quietly in the dark of night, and make Candazeen look like he's swallowing a jar of camel spit doing his task? Which is leading me to the prince's bedchamber. To bounce up and down on the cock of a royal, or be made to by the armed man by my side. I broke out in sweat, but not of fear; of wrath; this spoiled cockerel was going to call me _Rapunzel_ , reminding me of all my inferiorities in the face of her, my love - and then force me to _lie_ with him? He couldn't even be bothered to attempt a courtship? Also, I think he ruined Southern gardens for me forever, though that's a side note.

I cleared my throat. "What's going on, Candi?" I demanded of my captain; he stared straight ahead and shook his head.  
"Just keep your back straight and your chin up, as if you're a proper soldier," he tells me, not harshly. "The seven Valleys of our people know, you have the skill but hardly the temperament of one."  
Normally I enjoy a bit of cautious banter with Candazeen, but today I'm hardly in the mood. "What the _fuck_ is going on?" I half-whisper, half-growl, not even really at him. 

After a few seconds of striding, I speak. "Can I have a drink?" I ask hoarsely.  
He unwinds a strap at his belt and silently removes the leather bottle there. I toss it down my throat thirstily, though I feel no need for water. The sour wine will fortify me. The Captain knows this, though he doesn't mention it, keeping his mouth shut for once. We go quietly on.

"Here."

We've stopped suddenly; a small dark door in what I judge to be one of the towers on the lower levels of the Citadel. A distance from the barracks, but not as long as it felt. Candazeen pushes the door open and waits for me to go first; he trusts me to be clever enough not to run, but he takes no chances. Not when it's _his_ head on the chopping block, if I do.

I force myself to take a confident step inside and frown. No ornate bedchamber this - though I could've guessed that from the fact that we haven't reached the upper citadel yet, the highest part of the valley's great structure. Sure to be where Firduz rests his beautifully shampooed head; on satin and goosefeather, no doubt. Instead, I see a plain dark room, lit by a trio of candles on a functional wooden table on the right side by the corridor. 

One thing is impressive and unsettling as expected; a vast turquoise curtain spreads across a section of the room. It doesn't touch the dusty floor, however; the thing probably cost a year's wages for me. (Only one year's, I think with a vague smugness; Corona has drapes that make this look like roughspun wool). Underneath, in a bizarrely foreboding sight, I can see nothing but two sandalled feet. Small, but then Firduz is not large. What's he doing hiding behind the damn curtain? Can't he even face me like a man? I feel hot red rage rising in the pit of my stomach, and I resolve to smack him straight between the eyes, princehood be damned. Red with anger, I barely hear Candazeen's whisper, telling me to get on my knees. 

For a moment I pause, too angry to move even had I wanted to. _I will not kneel,_ I said inside, _I will not._

Candazeen takes me by the shoulder and starts to force me down; the only thing I can do to keep myself from smashing his head in is the only other thing I can do, which is fall to my knees in a cracking thud. My hair falls in my eyes, which is a relief. I'm not sure I want my eyes open for what follows; this way, I might be able to pretend I'm somewhere else. 

_Corona. The balcony above the gardens, overlooking the town. Yes, the wisteria in bloom, the swans on the crafted ponds. I go here always, when I allow myself, before I sleep. Because it's the time and place I remember Rapunzel most fondly; that exhilarating spring. . ._

_Suddenly I find I'm thinking of another place entirely. The hidden garden in this very fort, but, it seems, a thousand miles away from this dusty little room . . . from the smell, I can _see_ the sweet fig tree, the honeysuckle, the little lemon stand . . . I try to bring myself back to Corona, but something else is entirely filling my consciousness. _

I realise with a jerk that the lemon scent is here, in this room, from the figure behind the curtain. I grimace and blow my hair out of my eyes. What was I _doing_? I do not imagine myself away from a struggle, and especially not from poncy little princes wanting to put a baby in me. For this will be a struggle, I vow. I set my jaw determinedly. 

Candazeen, standing a couple of feet away looking into the curtain - his head respectfully bowed - seems to heed a signal. He takes a step towards me. I brace myself. This is it; the rape will begin with Candi bringing me to him, it seems. I expect sweat to be pouring down my cheeks, but I feel icy cold.

_"Hold out your hand."_

_I turn my head a fraction towards him. "What?"_

_He just waits. _My hand?_ After a second, I do it. _

_Instantly his arm snaps down and through my hand, causing a white-hot ray of pain to knife up my arm. I let out a cry and rise to my feet in shock; he waves me back down. I ignore him, studying my hand with trepidation. It's all in one piece, it seems, but a hideous red mark is forming. It'll be a welt, and a bad one. But I am not raped. Slowly, I kneel, the truth leaking into my head in drips._

Candazeen gives me another one, the snap echoing off the narrow space's walls. I grit my teeth and take another, stopping a tear from leaving my eye; I let out no further sign of my pain. Well, maybe I am tough, but I've had a lot worse. I look over at the curtain; the pale brown feet are just twisting against each other languidly, sensuously. I wonder if someone is enjoying another's pain, or just bored. I don't know which makes me angrier.

Suddenly, it strikes me who this is; the playing feet, the exotic scents mingling with the citrus freshness. I realise it just as the melodious voice reaches my ears.

"Candi, darling, you must stop now. She is so boring, this white woman; she has barely made a sound from your ministrations! I wonder at her toughness. Shall I see it at the games in a few days? In rather a more trying arena? Good. Dear Candi, send her away quickly so I may try a new recipe for my hot chocolate. I will give you a smell of it, if you carry me to my rooms. It'll be so exciting; everyone will think you're my _lover!_ Though you will have to hope we don't run into my brother. One flash of his sword and you'll be dead as Demanitus for touching his baby sister, so virtuous and innocent . . . aren't I virtuous, darling?"

Canna. The Prince's daughter is meting out punishments like a little tyrant in pretty sandals. I clench my fists. 

_Why?_

Candazeen indicates me to walk out, avoiding my eye. I tread past him as though nothing's wrong with the world; hidden from his view, I nurse my burning hand. It's not his fault, of course. 

"Oh, princess," Canna calls out, all cool solemnity of a sudden. "You should learn from this that my brother should not be trifled with. And you should gift us with the things fate has ordained for you to give us. Lie. With. Him." I hear her shift in her chair in a rustle of fabric, as if she's angry. _She_ angry! I stomp out before she can say anything more, though she's apparently fanning herself behind the curtain.

"Now, Candi," she says as I close the door. "Don't rumple the dress, I chose my favourite sky-blue so I didn't clash with the curtain . . . and I didn't, did I?" And the trollop actually giggled. 

_~_  
  
I throw myself back on my bed before immediately throwing myself back off it in a panic, remembering the sharp dagger Sazal threw on there. I hit the floor with a thud and groan. Luckily, the weapon is gone, though. A figure clumps the dimness towards me. 

"Where did you go?" Sazal; he whispers quietly, a look of concern on his face that I hate. A couple of soldiers hang a foot back, curious themselves. 

I look at their stupid faces and laugh bitterly. "Not _that_ , if that's what you're thinking. No, I had a lovely little audience." They wait expectantly, before I hit on an unexpectedly cunning plan. I force myself to smile. "With _Canna,_ Princess of the Fort and Valley. We're quite good friends now, you know." 

"Wow," murmurs Sazal, somewhat - if I detect rightly - relieved? For me? 

My bitter, untrusting self puts up its walls again just in time. 

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" I hissed at him. "Stabbing that mercenary - didn't you know all our lives hung on a knife edge in that moment? We could all be sausages for the mess hall tomorrow if we hadn't got so lucky . . ."

"You mean, if Candi weren't here to summon you to your meeting with your precious Canna," he growls back. "Anyway, we cleared up the mess just fine. Here," he leads me to the corner bed, shrouded in darkness. 

The dark mercenary from before is lying there in bloody bandages, the burly man - Kerik, I think - holding down his wound; the big man's brows are drawn in concentration, but no longer fear. Sazal's victim opens his eyes.

"Hello there," Sazal says cheerfully. "You're getting better, I assure you, by the five lucky stars I call guardians. Candi is taken care of, Cassandra here is free of feminine panic-" (I scowl at him in a fury) - "and the men are all about to turn in for a rest. But we're waiting on one thing."

The man on the bed looks up at him balefully, but with real fear creeping back in his eyes. I realise a row of mercenaries and Fort soldiers are gathered behind us. Every dark gaze is fixed on the bed and Sazal. 

"Kiss an' make up," grunts Ginger. His eyes are dreadfully intense; his stance stiff as a rock. "Or we all go down with you, man. An open wound among the men - whoops, you must probably still be sore." He pats his torso where the man's wound is and winces understandingly. I stare at him in astonishment. "I mean a permanent _disagreement_ with this young fellow"- he slaps Sazal on the shoulder - "will eventually lead to bad blood and, you know, real blood. Again. And that could be all of our hides, y'see?"

"So let's put an end to this," Sazal nods. He sticks out his hand. After a moment of staring up at him, the victim shakes his hand, cursing at the pain. 

So I suppose it's done; mercenary politics. Blood, terror, rapid reconciliation. I shake my head in disbelief.

Sazal turns to me and the men, grinning impudently. "So you see, this is what mercenary life is all about. In what other profession are men are so civilised they can have a pair stabbing each other in the evening and shaking hands and smiling before the sun even comes up?" he cranks up his smile to the max and it catches, the men starting involuntarily to grin back. "So, my brothers in the sands - are we not now a brotherhood? A brotherhood that knows how to look after its own -" _You fucking stabbed that man earlier!_ "- and go forth to battle shoulder to shoulder. All under the loving eye of our Candi and the Prince and their solemn threat to behead us all if we kill each other. Amen." 

_Well, that's the mercenaries of Kenwala for you,_ I think as we turn away to head to bed. We can't hurt each other seriously because of the Prince, and so we have some chance to undergo our service without looking over our shoulders every half second. And Sazal told them all that, in pretty words no less. Hours after stabbing one of their number over a half-insult in a card game. The boy's a master; a bloody, dangerous master of his fellow men. But he's bound us all up together, make no mistake; I won't have quite the same fear of a knife in the back now. Rape, of course, is not forbidden in the Prince's rules - but who will rape the Princess's "dear friend" after she went to see her tonight? I grin and turn back to the men.

Brown and black, tanned and white; Ginger goes with his short stride, old Opium with his dazed look, Jonai with the mousy hair and a wife at home; stout Kerik thudding across the room for more water. Not good men, perhaps. But I can live with them. 

Sazal sees me watching and flashes me a toothy smile and a look; a look that suggests sweaty sheets and hot loins. I turn away, not wanting to let him bask in his victory any more than he is. I still don't trust a man like that, either, even if we're supposed to be some kind of happy gang now.

 _That is one bad boy,_ I think as I finally go to bed, unwinding my mask to let my skin breathe. _And he lights a fire in me like nothing else I've known. Wrong, but there it is._

My hand throbs, but I refuse to think of that girl. Instead, I imagine clashes of steel. 

_How the hell am I going to win this contest in the desert?_


	8. On The Way

_Editor's note: the epigrams that prefaced the first seven sections of this work abruptly end here; this, it is gleaned from other pages, is due to the unfortunate death of one of the authors who wrote down Cassandra's words, as the work was ongoing. This author, who knew Cassandra intimately, made up for her inferior penmanship with apposite selections from earlier works; the women (and man) who worked on these pages later did not resume this practice until later entries._

I stopped dead at the entrance to the training grounds. "What the _hell_ is he doing here?" 

Twenty heads turned to me in horror and shock. Then, among the soldiers readying themselves for the struggle for glory, to the radiant figure of the son and heir of the Prince of Kenwala-a-Kenshaka, Firduz the High. 

_One hour earlier_

I paced the reception outside the great tower in the Citadel, central halls of this realm. Here the Fort was allowed one of the few displays of wealth it can afford; rich red carpets crinkle underfoot, and the walls are hung with exquisite tapestries (greatly valued here; the dry air preserves the fabric, apparently) depicting past victories of the Kenshakeen. A handful of banners adorn one wall; from my hasty studies of the desert Kenshakeen I recognise them as the symbols of tribute sent to the Princes of this valley. They're just symbols, really. The tribesmen send little in the way of services to their nominal ruler; the pair of _yanawalli_ bodyguards are about the extent of them. Until now, that is; now, the Prince hopes to browbeat them into final submission, so we can stand against the Hernomadeen hordes together. 

The Henwadeen, Yumaneen, Wallaheen, Jemadeen . . . they're the ones I will have to try to impress. And the ones the Prince needs on his side. Gold banner, blue banner, red moon banner, and the green-and-white banner. I impress them on my brain, as my personal trophies, should I win. 

And I plan to achieve the Prince's plan myself at this tournament we'll hold; if I should beat a few of the legendary _yanawalleen_ \- the greatest warriors of the South - or even _win_ , those tribesmen will see exactly what kind of mettle the Fort soldiers have, and won't turn tail the moment the savages come over the horizon. They will come over to the Prince who commands such great warriors - and Cassandra will be the one who did it, with her own strength and skill. At least, that's how I intend it to go, and at this point I'm tired of not getting my way.

If you're wondering why I would do a service for the mad rulers of this Fort - who have already beaten me, locked me in their country, and threatened to do worse - well, I'm not going to sit here and wait for that cockerel to force his way between my legs. I will do _something_ , because that's who I am. I bare my teeth at the tapestry depicting the destruction of the pirates of the Border Sea.  
Besides, with a few extra swords on my side, maybe I can actually survive my little sojourn in Kenshaka. 

A servant lets me in nervously and instructs me to ascend. I look up the sandstone staircase and whistle through my teeth; if the Prince is on the top floor, I'm going to have to ascend two hundred feet to get to him. I set off at a jog; it's warmup for the training yard, at least. 

After a sweat-drenched time I reach an archway, at the highest point of the valley. Seeing the old prince's white turban on a divan, I step through, a servant announcing me. I take note of the scented air, the colourful piled cushions, the heavy imported furniture. I stand up straight and slow my breathing as I come before the valley's ruler. _My_ ruler, now. 

He doesn't look up. The dreadful blank eyes gaze at an intricately covered parchment, though it doesn't seem to take priority over something else in the room. Me. I resist a shudder as I feel his attention turn to me. 

"You are bolder than when you first came to Kenshaka. Does this country suit you?"

"Yes."

"Are you the Princess Rapunzel?" 

"No."

"Firduz suggested to me that you are. He is quite taken with the notion that he will marry a renowned ruler."

I hesitate, toying with the notion of telling him that his son will _not_ marry me, thank you very much. Instead: "Will he marry somebody without her assent, Great and High?"

"You will assent. He is handsome and skilled with a sword; further, he has a powerful if unoriginal brain. You came here seeking to move on with your life, I assume. That's what we are all trying to do; to get what we want. You want riches and a family; Firduz will bring you those. So waste no more time and marry him; I have no patience for those who are not practical."

I colour with anger, glad he can't see it. "Yes. But I would be less of a person if I allowed myself to be forced into marrying somebody and having his children . . . Great and High."

He is silent for a moment. Finally the great face turns to me, the dark green eyes staring down at me over the hook nose. "Do you wish for a courtship?"

I stiffen, thinking hard. A wrong word here, and he could lose patience and force Firduz to rape me tonight and _make_ me have the heir he wants. If I tread carefully, I can get something here; with a thrill, I realise I am, in a way, bargaining with this creature. 

I clear my throat. "Yes. Let him earn my devotion." I calculate he'll appreciate brevity, as he always practices it himself.

The Prince considers a moment. "This is the way he seems to intend it, since he has not forced anything on you. Unless he believes you can kill him with the magical powers he believes you have; or he is simply soft." He places his paper down. "You shall be courted; you can expect him to come to you today. You shall have six months to decide what you will do; then, my hand is forced. You _will_ join my bloodline. I have not seen a woman as strong as you, or as tall, or as fierce; my descendants will be as strong and fierce, with your blood in them." He nods and takes up another paper.

I stand, thinking, while he looks it over. _I've bought myself six months. In that time I can work out a way to escape this country, or . . . could I actually marry him? I know now it won't be forced, and before that time is up, I will have made a name for myself independently; I will be in a position to look that high-born boy in the eye and know I'm indispensable to this castle. What has_ he _ever done for it? But . . . how can I marry here when I have not returned to my beloved?_ I feel rocked by my thoughts.

"Look at this." the Prince is holding the paper out to me; I take it dumbly. The script is mostly useless to me; I don't need to tell him so. 

"The Hernomadeen have reached the easternmost valley of Kenshaka," he informs me coolly. "My suspicion that they would attack our people was correct; however, now that the heat has reached its height, they will not dare campaign until the year begins to die. This gives us time."

I stare. Then I'm suddenly horrorstruck. "They've reached Kenshaka _already?_ I thought we had up to five years . . ."

"These horsemen are very mobile." He takes up a map and holds it up. "Kenshaka is a long country, geographically, and isolated. Most of our people are in valleys like this one, watered by streams from underground, with barren wastes inbetween. The enemy can either travel slowly via the highlands, or with greater losses and not much more speed through the desert. We are one of the westernmost communities. We have time." He frowns. "Now go and train."

I turn and begin to leave, but something makes me say one thing more. I have thought about what I said long and hard ever since. "Did you know your daughter had me beaten?"

He flicks his gaze to me with mild interest. "No. Does that offend you? Shall I have her strangled for you?"

I jerk my head up sharply. He is not joking. "No! I mean . . . if that is what Your Greatness thinks prudent." I turn and take my leave hurriedly. 

_Later_

Firduz grins at me as usual, then turns to the men. "Ginger, you shall try the woman in black now. Jonai, I shall have you, and Sazal - take whoever is brave enough."

The men move into position, sweating in the growing heat of the morning. I stare at the prince, thrown for some reason by his appearance. Is he going to try courting me on the training ground? Or does he wish to improve his men for the tournament?

"We are training, Cassandra," Firduz whispers. I realise that is the first time he has said my name. I scowl and march over to face Ginger, the palest mercenary here, along with me. Goodness knows why we decided to live somewhere you need brown skin to survive. 

Ginger scratches his beard dumbly. "Nice weapon," he says, without much aggression apparent in his voice. I nod and draw my western sparring sword, leaving my steel by my side. I could trip on it, but I'm not letting the most expensive thing I own out of my sight. He draws a dull southern-style blade, curved and thick and looking more like a butcher's implement than a knightly weapon. Which is fair enough, considering its owner. 

"Begin!" roars Firduz.

Ginger doesn't last long. Although his lighter weapon should let him strike faster, he just doesn't have the practice needed to beat me. I have my sword at his throat after a few strokes.

"That's good sword-work," he says distractedly, though I realise he _always_ sounds distracted; he really wasn't that bad. I'm just better.

My next opponent glides up. "Good morning, Cassandra," Firduz declares cheerfully. He gets in the ready position, in the style of this land. This man thinks he can rule me; I determine to beat him right here in his father's dirt. 

I snarl and launch an attack, my sword darting to the right side of his body, which he manages to deflect in time, his eyes widening. Several pairs of eyes are watching, and more joining, but I grit my teeth and retreat, watching his every move with trained concentration. I easily parry a strike from his scimitar, and dance around him at a radius of several feet, taking him with me. He doesn't seem to be used to footwork in any way; I have spotted his weakness, as I have been trained to do. He unleashes a series of rapid cuts at me, faster than I am used to from the bigger swords of home; he almost gets at me before I force him back, strikes on both sides almost breaking through his defences. He checks me, barely, and we stand back, breathing hard. 

Fighting is more exhausting than you can imagine, if you haven't done it yourself. Firduz wipes the sweat from his brow as the men gather round, cheering their prince and jeering at me. I hear shouts of "stupid bitch" and "foreign whore" and grit my teeth again. They're only being Firduz's sycophants, I tell myself. 

I let him come to me, he cautiously working at my defences, which are razor-keen; he cannot beat them and instantly we both see it. He goes for a desperate lunge; the right move, if he wants a chance at beating my superior skill, but I anticipate it and batter away his sword, launching through his defences and bringing my sword to his throat close up. A fairly humiliating way to end the contest, with a woman so far past his sword she can smell his breath. Herbal tea. Somebody whistles and the group laughs nervously, then falls silent. Their bonny prince has lost. 

I step back quickly. Firduz is clearly angry, but hides it with a smile. "Back to it, soldiers. Kerik, let's see if I can beat you again. . ."  
  
Two hours later, Candazeen has come by with wine for the Prince (actually it was for himself, but that's how things work with southern royalty; give 'em what you've got, or die) and our gracious Firduz hands us out a cup each while the Captain looks disapprovingly on. Well, anyone drinking wine when he could be drinking it is enough to piss him off; but I think he wants us training hard, not relaxing in the noon shade. Poor Candi is being encouraged to work us like oxen, I think, when he'd rather things went back to their old sleepy ways. I see him looking at me over his greying moustaches; he nods to me solemnly, and I recall our last meeting, in the presence of that brown slut. My captain seems sorry to have done it, at least; I subtly raise my cup to him to show I'm not angry. 

"I realise now we Kenshakeen have little idea about how to move the feet," a royal voice tells me. I look up to Firduz. "I hope it would not be presumptuous to ask you to show me how to do that sometime, in my garden? I may even take you off duty for it."

I look up into his eyes, only a foot and a bit away. His face is closer to me than it has ever been, I realise. From here, I can see his brown eyes, like warm pools in his smooth coffee-coloured face, so exquisitely shaped. I tear my eyes away and check our immediate surroundings, to make sure I can't be heard.

"Take me to the garden again? So you can rape me there?" I hiss at him, though the prospect of seeing that garden again does something to my heart. Or perhaps my body is being rebellious, and enjoying the idea of being secluded with him in the long grass. I frown with disgust. 

He looks hurt and barely holding in his own anger. "I have never made a suggestion of that," he reminds me sternly. "No, I think it would not be so onerous to take some time to train with me in the shade. Besides, a runner told me about your meeting with Father. You cannot read our script? I would be delighted to teach you the wonders of our language; I am a master myself." He grins at me again.

The bastard thinks he will conquer me. I stand up abruptly. "Perhaps," I tell him. "Bring a chaperone - someone to make sure we are behaving morally," I add, on account of his confusion. "But I'll be too busy with duties - and we are leaving very soon, in case you had forgotten."

"Yes, the war approaches apace and we must take action," he muses dozily. "We'll see, Princess." He drifts off, no doubt daydreaming about what he will do in the garden, or what fabulous garment he will wear to the tribes' meeting. 

Sazal, I notice, is looking over the group of sweaty men with pride, as if he is the one with authority here. He was skilled enough, I saw; easily the best except me, and perhaps not even that. We never fought, silently agreeing that by the time we got round to each other, we were too tired to give it a proper contest. The other men clap him on the shoulder in congratulation; he accepts it like the king of the pride, all stoic. He looks over at me, suddenly much more serious. He clomps over. 

"Prince congratulated you personally," he says grimly. 

I frown at him, staring him straight in the eyes, which are level with mine. "Yep."

"Ever thought about when we're gonna have a little tumble ourselves? And I don't mean in the training yard. Unless that's where you want it, of course." His features are stiff; I feel like I'm dealing with a crouching panther.

I force myself to smile at him, though he can only see my eyes. "Of course I've _thought_ ," I tell him in what I hope is a sultry voice. Something I've never done before, of course. "My big man is going to have to wonder about that for a little bit, I'm afraid. But he might not have to wait too long," and I briefly squeeze his balls, just hard enough to hurt. His eyes widen, his initial anger dissipated. He seems unable to find something to say, for once. I walk away to midday duty, the sun hitting my eyes with what feels like physical force.

What I did back there might be perilous - I may have just led him on, driving him to fury should I not give him what he wants - but he looked like he was getting jealous, and jealousy might lead him to do something stupid. Attacking Firduz would be too reckless for him, but if he ever thought he could get away with it. . . I had to soothe him. 

Besides, at some point I might get desperate again.  
  
On foot - the true desert is far too barren to support more than a couple of horses - I begin the great trek out of my new home. The moist soil crunches slightly underfoot (the Valley soil seems moist to me now, after months here), the powerful sunlight sending baking heat straight back into my face. That's better, though, than the torture of letting the rays hit my eyes and the black cloth covering my face.

We are finally moving off: the Great and High Prince is having us walk through the fiery daylight out of the valley, where the rockier ground necessitates better light. Later, in the summer desert, we'll move by night, to avoid the deadly heat; as it is, the lack of water we'll face has stripped our expedition to the bare minimum. Almost the bare minimum; I walk beside Princess Canna's green caravan, spear on my shoulder. Apparently the Prince wishes to let his young flower charm the tribesmen's allegiance out of them; I snort in derision, remembering my experience of the royal's company, but I know one hour with that flamboyant wench will have them bowing to the sandy ground. Young Canna is resting from the day's heat; inside, no doubt, her royal head lolling on gentle cushions in slumber, her pampered flesh surely fanned by sweating girls. 

The bitch.

We finally reach the lip of the valley, the highest point accessible by wagon, looking over the Prince's domains. Most of the view is taken up by the monstrous Fort, but I see the river, and the little fields. Beyond us is something rather more promising, and deadly. I look upon the endless desert for the first time. 

Far beyond the great slope below us, the land still has visible vegetation. Beyond, I get the impression of nothing; I _know_ to my bones that nothing could survive out there. Not I, nor the men, nor Firduz with all his massive inheritance. The bare dunes rise and fall and stretch in millions of tons of sand. What crawls across those hills, I wonder? What is in the endless earth beneath it? Where is the water?  
My eyes wander over the unceasing yellow-brown up to the blank horizon, more endless than anything I have seen, dwarfing the land. I swallow, and wonder with a growing feeling whether I am in love. 

I think this is my land.  
  
By midnight on the second day, we've reached the camp where the future of this country will be decided. And the future of me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Calamity is coming to the Valley of Kenwala-a-Kenshaka; will the natives, the mercenaries, and any allies they find be able to stand and survive? Cass has high hopes but gloomy expectations, as usual. The storm is already at the Prince's doorstep, I promise. Not long left until Cass begins her new path. 
> 
> I want to go back and refine a few rough edges at some point - I did a tiny bit today (12th Feb) but 95% of the fic is unpolished. I was never going for exquisite writing, but we will all appreciate a bit of fine-tuning here and there. Nevertheless, I'm looking forward to the next chapter, which will be a big one - let's hope I can match its importance with quality! It'll come within a couple of days. 
> 
> I hope people are keeping up with this fic; you will need to read a lot more of it than I have published so far to really appreciate it. Thanks to everyone who is.
> 
> P.S: I hope I'm not getting too wordy in this fic. The last chapter was one of the worst so far, I think.


	9. Berzibal Hills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys (and girl) reach a certain place they'll remember for the rest of their lives - however short that may be for some of them. The tournament of the age begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're coming to the end of our desert adventure now; I think it's time. Expect a conclusion in the next few chapters - which is also a beginning of something much bigger.

The Prince's force descends another gentle slope and finally reaches the flats again, the level sand ending several miles ahead of us in the low hills Firduz has insisted on telling me are the _Berzibal_ , a _minor_ (he adds in a hissing fury) landmark, in terms of cultural significance. Not a place you should meet your nominal ruler for bargaining - which is why young Firduz is now sulking in his sister's cabin, rather than marching with me in the blistering, savage heat. Well, he made a smart choice. But then who, as we traipse across the crunching loess towards our final destination, gets to be at the head of the head of this vital expedition? Only little old me. 

I trickle a series of drops into my mouth with the severest care. I thought the Border Country north of the mountains was harsh terrain - but now I know the truth; that was the staging-post, a cosy inn on the way to this, the real South. What that coach-driver said to me was true - the Borders drip with water, if I recall his words right. I remember the little river and the hardy green shrubs with affection, and the vineyard where I patrolled on the last night before the journey; a place that seems impossible now, with its water-fat little crops. 

The only plants here are the very hardiest; the occasional prickly cactus, or a brittlebush, which with its sickly yellow flowers seems a miracle of blooming life. I see these maybe once every three miles, in tiny clumps. The rest is barren wilderness like I couldn't imagine before I crossed those mountains only two days ago; endless sands and dirt and little hills in the distance that might be a mirage, and the mountains, jagged daggers punching the sky behind us. They seem like a wall, to keep us out of life, which is to be found on the other side, if only we could cross to it. And we're heading in the opposite direction. I squint ahead, pushing my water into my belt. 

Nothing. I look for the desert men, but only take in the total absence of trees, of anywhere to hide. It's unsettling.

~

And I am keenly aware of this again, some hours later. We're trudging up to the bleak hills ahead - me still in the lead, Kerik striding olive-skinned and huge by my side, when behind us I hear a noise that makes my stomach drop. I know what it is before I spin around, my eyes desperately seeking the assailant; a force of men _rises_ from the sand in a half-ring around the caravan vanguard, loosing a hideous wailing that assaults me from all sides. I turn, fighting my fear, to assess the situation. I've already mastered my terror when I realize our fates may not be sealed; there are no more than twenty desert warriors ringed around us, clasping vicious spears and rusted swords: hardly overwhelming odds, if we can react in time. I turn and scream at the milling men behind me - some ten trained soldiers, it could be enough - to stop hurrying towards me and the clump of warriors straight ahead of us, as if they mean to break through, and run back to the caravans, where we can at least have our backs to something. 

We hightail it back to the lead caravan, sweating and cursing, Kerik bellowing defiance at the desert men as we run. We form up, Kerik and I somehow ending up in the leading position. The desert warriors are still loping towards us at no hurried pace. I look around; Sazal is nowhere to be seen. We could've used his skill here - and maybe I'd want to see his evil handsome face again, but then, I had a strenuous ride with him on a ridge two nights ago. I suppose I can have that on my mind in my last moments, at least. But no - I'm a trained warrior and in combat, there is room for nothing on your mind but steel. I grip my sword and face them. _An odd group I have to die with._

One calls out and beckons me to come forward; he moves ahead of the group. Is he challenging me? I step forward cautiously, treading across the sand to meet him. When we're standing no more than two yards apart, he speaks again, with words I don't quite understand, but feel like I should. I frown impotently, my sword ready still. 

Finally he realizes I don't understand him and shouts to the assembled men behind me. Jonai, the mild young Kenshakeen, replies in the same tongue, and I feel his palpable relief even though I don't look at him. 

"They're saying we ran like frightened chickens," he shouts to the soldiers and me, "but they offer us salt and water. They are hosting us, and merely wanted to test our reactions." One or two of the soldiers groan in embarrassment and relief. I scowl. 

"Actually, we did pretty well when you popped up out of the ground. We went straight back and organised a defence, which would have lasted until we could be reinforced by the rest of the escort. And you're not always going to know exactly where your enemy will march, so the trick of hiding in sand won't work every time." I'm speaking in Valley Kenshakeen; these men, I realise later, must be using a desert dialect. 

The lead man looks at me disdainfully. "I am surprised the one in the lead of your expedition is ignorant of the desert tongue. Perhaps the woman could not bear not to be the object of attention and put herself there, and made the mission look so foolish?" he sputters with laughter and his men follow suit. 

I am aflame with rage, of course. How dare he? I actually put my hand on my sword, but he is turning away. "Come, let the valleymen rest. Your leader may step onto the hallowed rock here one mile hence."

Our soldiers look at me with pity as I stalk back; Sazal watches me with an amused smile, which he dampens when he sees me looking. "Good thing you didn't get us in a scrap there, Cass. I only draw a blade in anger if I can't run away first, and out here . . . you can't run away."

"Terrible for natural cowards like us," Ginger says seriously, and he and Sazal exchange manly nods. I turn away silently in fury as the expedition begins to move again. 

God, but the desert men were _creepy_. Who can hide, perfectly still, in the sand like that?

~

The Prince heaves his magnificent chest and belly into the pavilion built against the brutal sun, and everyone _applauds_ like something great has just been achieved. It's a lunatic country, where the people adore their rulers like gods. 

The six chiefs who have turned up watch him carefully from their skinny, sun-shrivelled frames. Dark eyes peer cruelly from above hook noses and under bushy white eyebrows; the six nonetheless look like they could move as fast as a viper if they wanted to. I surmise they must have been _yanawalleen_ back in their day, the best of the best, shaped into uncorroding steel by the harshness of the desert. You'd think few _yanawalleen_ would live to be that age, given their livelihoods as elite warriors, but you'd be surprised; the _yanawalleen_ don't fight with honour, but win their battles by any evil means they can find. They have the purest will to survive you can imagine; they've eaten humans out in the desert, when they had nothing else, and fight with the dirtiest tactics. They are not afraid to run from battle if they're sure of defeat. It means they survive where no other soldier could. 

I watch them with reverent eyes.

Well, it's all what you'd expect from thereon out - speeches in the grandiloquent Kenshakeen way, about the honour of the desert men reaching back into times no-one now knows, and how the ancient ways are kept alive, not least by our deadly "death eagles" (that's the true meaning of _yanawalleen_ , according to Jonai), and the desert men have always lived apart from the valley men, and that's how it should be. I raise an eyebrow at the name Demanitus; I'd suspected the great man had come here on his travels, but I've never heard it acknowledged before; the desertmen in particular seem to respect him as a prophet. Jonai whispers translations of the wizened words coming from the purple pavilion until our mouths are all too dry to speak, standing here in the sun, which is mercifully cooling. One moment did stand out, though: the tribe chiefs gave way to Prince Keder, expecting a long-winded discourse in the Kenshakeen tradition, and here was his reply: "War is coming. You can't stand it alone, and neither can we. We have better weapons and more men than you; you have knowledge of the desert. You have the _yanawalleen_. Fulfil your oaths." And he sat down, to the incendiary glares of the chiefs, which could have felled a bull but wash off the Prince like rainwater. That's a clash of steel wills I'd like to see, I thought.

No, for the men the only attraction - aside from water, the dire lack of which was making even Ginger look perturbed - was the tournament, which was finally announced by some grim desert homesteader to hoarse cheers from the Valleymen, and jeering calls from the desert folk. They're sure they'll pound us into the ground, and no wonder, given they have men called Death Eagles on their side. We step up and announce ourselves one by one for the lists, which aren't paper, of course - there are only five books in the whole six tribes here, Firduz told me; one tribe had their book eaten by a camel, which probably didn't leave the camel owner to a long and happy life - or the camel. 

Sazal, young and smirking, first; weapon is a short scimitar. Ginger, whose real name is Nicholas, apparently, which makes me laugh out loud. He uses a Western rapier, about the same weight as full-sized Southern scimitars. Kellal, spear. Jonai, short spear. Kerik wants to use a hammer, but it's to first blood, not first skull smashed, so he opts for a full scimitar. Cassandra, medium-length Western Coronan sword. A few others from our side, and finally Opium, who somehow secured a place on this trip - Candi's old sense of humour making a reappearance, perhaps. He puts himself down as fighting with a sword, which is odd, since he sold his a year ago to buy drugs. Candi himself does not enter - too old, though he agrees to a friendly match with the Wallahi chief, who looks eighty. 

Well, the Prince and the chiefs had as much to discuss as I expected, since they're not out from the first round of talks until four hours later, when the men and I have finished a spartan supper - a touch of rabbit, of all things, heavily salted so it keeps, and biscuit brought from the Prince's large stores. We're itching to prove ourselves after our humiliation from earlier, which is starting to sting; my group of mercenaries and regulars, who tend to bunch together over dinner, get a barrage of amused stares from the  
desert folk. They are pretty hostile to us from the get-go, as Sazal points out languidly over dinner, his normally good mood shattered. Well, nerves can affect anyone, and his manly ego is probably hurting a lot under all those stares. More than a few of the desert girls, bare-headed and barefoot for the night, are examining us surreptitiously from a distance, and looking unenthused. Interesting, that they should bring their daughters, Kellal muses, to which I reply, too quickly, that Prince Firduz is looking for a wife and a desert girl could cement an alliance. 

"You're not thinking of a marriage to the little prince, are you, Cass?" Sazal smirks at me, but his eyes fail to cover his jealous anger. The others laugh nervously. They're afraid of my reaction - nobody here wants to set Sazal off, or me. I however just ignore him and stare at the girls to have something to look at. One abruptly breaks out in a smile and calls me over. Glad of an excuse to leave the worn boulder that serves as our table, I approach and she calls out, "may I handle your sword?" in dialect - but it's close enough for me to understand. I unsheathe myself for her and she admires my weapon in awe. She's probably never seen so much good steel; out here, steel is as rare as gold is back home. Satisfied, she leans forward and clumsily slides my sword into place, giggling nervously. She's so close I can smell her, my first real experience of a denizen of the desert; she smells like little more than the sand, which they use to wash themselves, but there is a hint of femininity in her smell. She thanks me formally, staring into my black-veiled eyes, and somebody at my table wolf-whistles loudly. Luckily, she doesn't know what that implies; she smiles and skips off nimbly across the sand. 

I was only a little overwhelmed by smelling another woman for the first time in a year, I will admit. 

"At least one of us is getting some success," Jonai grins, and Sazal, thankfully, breaks out in laughter along with the rest of us. What he sees as "his woman" eyeing Prince Firduz is forgotten in the marvellous joke of her being chased by a curious desert wench who doesn't know she's chasing a woman. Hopefully that's the last he thinks of it, and after all, what has he got to be suspicious of?

~

"Bets! Place your bets here and know they are under the protection of the seven mystic moons of . . ."

A whole throng, mostly of desertmen, assembles haphazardly in a broad flat space at the foot of one of the larger hills. There is an excited babble; this is the biggest event the western desert has seen in thirty years, they say, and word of it will spread to even the valleys of the far east of Kenshaka, some nine hundred miles away. A prince taking action to prepare against the Hernomadeen must be something a lot of Kenshakeen want to hear. And besides, this is a major testing of valour. 

_And an expensive one,_ I think, watching bags of money exchanged with the bookmaker. I feel a knot at the pit of my stomach, but I'm keen. I've been preparing myself mentally for weeks; I have a better chance in this than most. 

Indeed, Candi or somebody must have whispered something about my prowess, because I see myself chalked among the favourites on a weathered stone wall. 

"The bets are being made that you'll reach the semifinals, and lose to somebody who makes it that far, likely a _yanawalla_ ," Jonai tells me, strapping on a bracer. "I'm thin, which makes me a smaller target, and a native, which makes them think I'm naturally superior. Sazal is adored - his name is even being put up for the final round, though that's a risky one, given who's come to fight for the desert. Kerik is big, so he's predicted to get through two bouts tonight and another on the second day before losing."

"The enemy side?" I raise my voice against the excited babble. The group of young ladies from before swans past, only this time they're headed by a valleyman. Or girl; Canna, only daughter of the Prince of Kenwala, goes gigglingly past, her admittedly wonderful pink dress floating through the air like an aetherial vision. The desert girls, a little better dressed than earlier, follow avidly, flashing her looks of awe - and glancing at us in interest and pity. 

Jonai is speaking, I realise. "They have Lendahee, the Legend," he admits reluctantly. "He's the sure favourite to win, so don't get your hopes up about Sazal or you getting it. A _yanawalla_ , of course, of the Jemadeen. Next, there's Kumar, of the Yumaneen, a particularly vicious fighter, even his comrades said. He bites people in battle." Seeing my look, he adds, "But any weapon but what the ringmaster says is illegal, including poison and knives. Those are the _yanawalleen_." He falls suddenly silent, looking behind me with an odd look on his face.

A hand grabs my arm. As I turn my head, I look into the face of Prince Firduz, the royal pain in the arse. "Cassandra," he whispers as I shake his hand off furiously, "the worst insult in the desert culture is _lubullaluh_ , suggesting an inability to handle one's spouse. The second worst is _ishibuzh_ , which is obscene." He smiles at me, as if he's achieved something wonderful by telling me this. I fight off the desire to kick him in the balls.

"So _what_?"

"Use it in battle, Cassandra!" he hisses, as if I'm stupid. I suppose I am, especially compared to him. "They expect you to be unable to communicate with them, so if at a crucial moment you should shout the most heinous insult ever heard in the desert, _you will distract your enemy_ and win the day. Also, the desert greeting is _genjeez_ ; the desert people are collectively referred to as _fellakeen_. It will be useful to be courteous."

I stare at him in silence. Some level of me knows it's a good plan, but the majority of me is annoyed at this man. So I say nothing.

"And, furthermore," he tells me, visibly irritated and hurt, " _I_ shall win this tournament for us." He strides off towards the fighting ground.

I turn back to Jonai, who is staring at me. As are several valley soldiers. After a few dumb seconds I loudly announce, "He's going to compete."

It doesn't distract them from the fact that he held my arm and spoke to me personally.

"GREAT ONES OF THE DESERT HOME!" roars Firduz over the din. He repeats himself, until the tribal elders notice and signal for quiet. Finally, a hush settles on the makeshift arena. "Honourable ones of valley and desert, river and oasis home . . ." and so forth. "My father's wonderful soldiers plan to do their lord honour today. This is surely right and fitting. But I am a red-blooded young man under sun and moon, and I demand my right to compete for honour also! I shall enter the lists!"

And what do you know, he gets a huge roar of approval from the crowd, both our lot and theirs. I suppose he did look resplendent there in the light of moon and torch, with his red coat and glossy hair to his chin and the gleaming sword he catches from the air - flung by Loman, one of the regular soldiers. His dear sister leads a red-faced screaming fest for him from the girls, and really puts her back into it, from the way she slumps afterwards. The desert men are all on their feet for him, in fact; his bravery and youthful good looks are the best persuasion tool his father could hope for. Of course, they don't believe he can defeat one of their revered _yanawalleen_ , so they're just here for a show and a bet on who comes third. 

The chief of the Henwadeen tribe rises slowly to his feet. "Under the fourteen holy stars of navigation, and with the aid of the warrior spirits of our past . . . Let the tournament begin!"

"First contestants!" bellows the boutmaster.


	10. Rising Odds

"The first round," announces the duelmaster. "Jonai of Hoybekir versus Asen Ebi, of the Jemadeen. First blood only." He repeats a Kenshakeen prayer as the combatants stalk into the ring; a flurry of final betting begins. I feel a nudge on the back of my arm; Sazal is holding out his hand, with a few silver coins cupped in it. I silently shake my head. 

"Good choice," he murmurs. "Our Jonai is sure to win. He's a demon with that spear."

And as I turn back to the contestants, I think I agree. Jonai moves cautiously - he is not the most confident man here - but he handles that weapon unconsciously, like a part of himself. As the announcer gives the word, he practically leaps forward, lunging with the spear then delivering a flurry of jabs at the Jemadi opponent. The desert man, the _fellaka_ , is hard-pressed to avoid a wound; he backs to the edge of the ring and, seeing himself trapped, finally lets off the defence and counterattacks - but Jonai is untouchable. He swerves away, letting the enemy waste his strength for a second. I watch breathlessly, like the rest of the audience. Then I see it; Asen Ebi's defence is one-sided; Jonai can't help but take advantage of it soon. 

Jonai grits his teeth with unneeded concentration and finally his spear pierces the fellaka's side, and is just as quickly pulled out again. Jonai steps back as the fellakeen groan softly, seeing the blood. The first bout of the first round goes to us, something that matters to these superstitious folk; the Prince must be pleased. I look over and see his impassive brown face; only a tiny wrinkle shows his pleasure. The tribal chiefs show little emotion, but they have little cause to - the Jemadeen, Asen's tribe, are known as the least warlike, so this is a minor loss for them. 

Jonai, typically, checks the warrior's wound, which is bleeding little. Only Jonai, out of all the mercenaries, would do that - you'd never catch me checking whether my enemy was hurt. I watch him cautiously; for now, we remain unofficially on one side - the fellakeen don't want to seem antagonistic towards the Valley men - but in the later rounds, once most of the contestants have been knocked out, we might have to face each other in the ring. He is good, better than I thought, but nervous - that opening lunge was reckless, more or less. _Could easily have gone wrong._ And his opponent was pretty poor; these fellakeen aren't as fierce in battle as I thought, when they sprang out of the earth around me. Better at survival than close fighting, maybe.

I look over at Sazal, who is measuring our comrade in the same way, no doubt thinking the same things I was. 

"Maybe one of ours will get into the fifth round after all," Ginger says soberly. The fourth round, in case you don't know, decides who the last two contestants will be: the first round cuts out half of the 40 men (and woman) who enter; the second leaves 10, the third 5, the fourth 3, the fifth 2, the sixth being the decider. 

"I'm going to be in the sixth round," I announce. I hear the heads turn, but don't look around. 

No way they believe me, of course.

~

In the brief interlude between bouts, I'm told to come to the prince's pavilion. The royal spider is sitting still on a throne-like chair - one of the very few to be found in this treeless country - talking to the Yumaneen chief, a particularly hard-looking bastard in blue. His voice is as loud as ever, but he seems to have finally decided to use some loquacity. Gone are the abrupt sentences he uses on me; he's holding the Yumana's attention easily, presumably telling him how he plans to beat the Hernomadeen. 

I weave my way through the crowd and approach the rulers, keeping my back straight. Firduz is sitting on a velvet bench next to his sister, who is smiling graciously at some desert dignitary. When she turns her dark eyes on me, though, her face turns sour and she flashes me a look as hot as the desert noon.

"Sit," barks the Prince without turning his head, indicating the bench Canna and Firduz sit on. I blink; there's barely enough room to fit myself on there even if I squeeze. I adjust my weapons so they don't nudge the siblings, and manoeuvre my body in the space between them; Canna's glare gets fierier, if that's possible, and even Firduz looks irritated. Their father continues his talk without pause. 

"First couple of bouts to us," murmurs Firduz.

I nod awkwardly. I'm never good in situations like this!

"Our men fight better than I had thought in the training yard," he continues. His shoulder presses into mine; I feel the supple young muscle and sinew beneath. But I feel something else: Canna seems unperturbed by my body, leaning naturally into me as if I were some object to be used for her personal comfort. Her bare shoulder and upper arm - her forearms are covered in some airy pink material - are warm on my new desert gear. I get that feeling of perfectly smooth hairless skin against your clothes.

Canna speaks up in breathy, overawed tones: "And my beloved brother shall outshine them all; like unto the glinting jewel in the night sky shall he fly. Such a fine _available_ mate, with his manly jaw and flowing locks, not a single female here shall resist him. But he shall have only one."

"Shan't he, _Cassandra?_ Her smile is directed towards the battleground, not even at me.

So she is still intent on breeding me. So is the Prince, it seems, if he brought me here tonight. Speaking of which . . . 

"Firduz, go and prepare. You must fight in the first round like every other combatant." The younger prince rises gracefully, giving me a friendly look I don't deign to return, looking away instead. Straight into Canna's eyes.

The girl smirks over her moving fan, which she wields herself despite the servants she occasionally beats into doing it for her. She really is beautiful - enough to stop your heart, if you're not prepared for it. Those soft cheeks, the exquisite caramel skin . . . her ankles knocking playfully under the hem of that divine skirt . . . her expression hardens as if she realises what I'm thinking. "I can't wait to remind you again of your duty," she tells me sweetly. 

I resist shoving her fingers up her nostrils (see how pretty she looks then!) and curse myself for such folly. _Why in hell would I think that?_ I admonish myself inside. Not fingers and nostrils - the other thing. This girl may be the first princess you've seen since Rapunzel, but that's no reason to contemplate her body. Dreams like that are absurd; I've always been hurt by my own dreams. 

I fall into a reverie over Rapunzel, sitting there, my eyes unfocussed. I later realise Canna was watching me curiously.

My hackles rise suddenly; I know danger is here. And I'm right about it being too late, but my hand going to my sword would have done no good anyway if it had drawn. A white cord is already over the head and under Canna's delicate neck, drawn back violently enough to jerk her head before her expression of surprise can form; it would have been replaced with terror quickly enough anyway.

"You shall not interfere," the Prince booms over the gathering, and forty hands leave their weapons abruptly, and more mouths drop open in pure shock. What in the rivergod's name is _happening?_

Canna is being strangled to death. I stand four feet away and watch in roiling emotion; the Prince is strangling his own daughter. With a jolt, I realise it's because of _me_ ; he wants to show me how serious he is. _Breed or die, and if I mention someone being strangled, they are strangled._

The girl is putting up something of a fight, having twisted out of her seat; she's kicking like mad, but the grim soldier behind her holds tight. Canna's face turns a horrible red, eyes bulging monstrously out of her head; her feet kick madly, even into the wood bench. I wonder what I feel at this. 

There is a bolt of pleasure at her pain and terror, yes.

At a signal from the Prince she is released, and drops to the floor in an immobile heap, dragging air desperately through her lips, unable to move. Her fingers claw the grained earth as if to grasp her life as firmly as they could, to _feel_ she would be able to breathe one more moment. I watch her in awe with the realisation: that is an experience that changes someone.

Not necessarily for the better.

I look and see the old chiefs are on their feet, most of them; the Yumana just watches serenely from his seat. The Prince rests in his chair, his black gaze still on his daughter. And somebody else.

Canna struggles to her knees, wincing in pain ("wincing" doesn't do it justice; her whole body cringes regularly, and I realise she must have broken something in her thrashing around). "Candi!" she calls out with pitiful hoarseness. "You always came to help me when I needed you. Come . . ." She coughs, her eyes watering.

The Captain of guards looks like he's being dealt blows, but doesn't dare countermand his Prince. He stares in pity at the girl he saw grow up.

His master speaks to the chiefs and all of us. "I simply had to chastise my daughter," he intones. "I gave the order for her to be put to death, but I changed my mind when I recalled that a death at the beginning of a festival curses it." Silence; everybody - _everybody_ looks. He gives a thin smile, the first anyone here's ever seen from him. "If the fellakeen will not give the order . . . I shall say: let the next bout begin!"

No avoiding a direct order, especially not from a monster like that, even if you are a free man of the desert. The men move to prepare the next fight - I can't remember who it is.

Canna struggles to her feet, evincing a cry of pain. "I think my toe is broken!" she whimpers. "Carry me away, somebody . . ." The Prince looks again, a motion of his hand forbidding it. When Canna realises she will have to walk, she cannot stop her crying. As fifty pairs of eyes pretend not to watch her, she hobbles piteously slowly across the rough ground towards her cabin, her beautiful dress stained irrevocably. I turn away from the scene - no longer causing me pleasure - to see Jonai running up to me.

I take a second to realise what he's saying. "Cassandra, it's you! You need to be in the ring!"

~

I take my place opposite my fellaki opponent. A heavily built man, probably a nobleman's son, with a fine southern sword in his hands and an assured way of moving. I have a feeling he's better than most of the desert men I've seen in the first round so far, so I concentrate especially hard on focussing my mind. A thought flashes red across my consciousness - the Prince _knew_ he'd distract me with that almost-killing of Canna right before my bout. Was the big snake trying to make me fail? Or was he testing if I can keep my cool?

Well, I've never had trouble going into battle distracted by emotion. I've only ever been able to call on one emotion in battle, and that's pure violent rage.

I hear the voice of the betman. "Bets of thirty silvers made on Cassandra!" he hollers as people feverishly make last-minute bets. I blink; thirty silvers here is enough to buy a camel; a lot, considering this is only the first round. I could get rich from this, if I put some bets on myself.

All around, the crowds settle their eyes on me and my oppenent, but talk is moving rapidly among them. Rumour spreads fast; by now everybody must know the Prince nearly killed his own daughter in front of the tribe chiefs. What will that do for his reputation? A man who is willing to do something like that is not one to be crossed. Nor would his subjects miss the point; next _their_ necks could be the ones fastened with white cord. What a viper he is.

After the usual procedure, the announcer says "begin!" (in any other country he'd shout; here they're all weirdly soft-voiced) and I blink the sweat out of my eyes, focusing on my opponent. I think about letting him come towards me, but this strategy only lasts a matter of seconds and then I'm launching myself forward, straight toward his shining swordpoint. I batter the sword aside and go for him, but he's already backing away pretty well, his eyes widening. He quickly brings his sword back around and counterattacks, strong fast blows pounding at me, mainly from my right.

I grit my teeth and feel the battle-rage surge in me; I scream and smash my sword into him in a brute-force version of a disarming strike; with a great violent sound his sword is wrenched from his grasp and sent across the arena. I should have him then but he desperately charges towards his weapon. He brings it up to parry my ferocious downward swipe; both my arms are jolted brutally, the shock going through to my core. I'm the better swordsman but he has something else on his side; raw strength.

He roars and surges up towards me, sword formlessly crashing into mine and bringing it hopelessly out of any formal position, practically away from my body. His sword goes too, but that's not the point; he crashes into me with a bull's force, snapping my head back, oddly like Canna's when she was attacked. I almost fly backwards, feet pedalling furiously to keep myself upright on the ground, but it's no use; he brings me down with a thunderous jolt that should separate my limbs from my body. The crowd roars; he must have won now. I groan but just as I do I see a way; his hold on me is nowhere near secure - he clearly doesn't know techniques to hold someone down - and before he has time to I slither out on his left side, leaping up with all my strength despite my spinning head.

I run blindly to where my sword dropped, only a few feet away. The crowd's groans of disappointment wash over me but I pay them no heed; I am fully in the battle zone. I lunge for my sword and bring it up to meet his; he is slower than I expected, but still quick to recover; he comes at me sweatily, visibly tiring, but his first blow is still powerful enough to strain my muscles to the limit. My muscles often are strained when I fight men, so I don't allow that to affect me. 

Before I tire too much, I unleash my last gambit; after I deflect his sword away I use mine's superior reach, backing away from him and forcing him to follow hard, trying to get within range with his shorter sword. I lead him round the arena like this, tiring him as he strikes in vain. The fight has been one of the longest so far, I think. Perspiration beads on my brow and soaks my back through; I'm practically in a bath of sweat. I want water as much as I want to win this fight.

I lift my sword and look into his dark face. " _Ishibuzh!_ " I spit at him and, seeing his eyes widen, desperately launch a series of the fastest strikes I have done since I came to this country. A desperate need to win fuels me; also, I have Rapunzel's face on my mind.

My blows hammer at him and on his right I manage to score his arm, an ugly wound that quickly pours blood onto the desert sand. The man may be big but he isn't dumb; he knows he is hit and looks down in anger, letting his sword drop. 

"You win, _Foreigner!_ he hisses at me. I neatly slide my sword back into its sheath and stare him down. He walks off in disgust.

"Another of the Valley warriors wins!"

drones the announcer, and raises his eyebrows when the desert crowd voices its displeasure. _As if they'd take kindly to being reminded they're losing_ I think incredulously as I rub my aching hands into my weary face, finding a layer of shining sweat. Still, I'm pleasantly tired and thrilled, and increasingly happy as I walk from the arena.

_I'm winning this._


End file.
